Amazing poetry shared by a talented writer.


She now plants landmines where she once stationed azaleas but then spring is long past now, high sun skirmishes beseech to ignite the bonfires of autumn worse still, Jack Frost stirs rubbing his eyes, yawning rousing himself once more mischief, as ever his vexing wheeze Whatsoever that was then when the ball was still in play He stands, hands on hips curtains drawn wide open back bedroom, top of the house watching her prune whatever it is she prunes him, pondering the point as to how from sustainable stalemate she has broken through his lines to claim victory in a self-rule he sees only as his rout That this is a mere flash an event anterior to the cerebral scars of invidious bloodbath is the only saving grace for this amiable jester long since salvaged, now woven tightly into the threads of seasoned new love's genius, and the taffeta cloak…

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