Inspiration hits with a flash, stories written on the go. A rumble of laughter and the tale is heard only in echoes. The wind blows me in a new direction. Whom shall I visit next?
But no, I’ll stumble on, on trembling legs,
In hopes this seething street leads me to rest,
And drink this cup of potion to the dregs–
For sustenance or death–whatever’s best.
Oh, do I trudge on my, or God’s, volition?
There’s little in this that I wish to do,
But if I make it through this tough transition,
In different form I’ll venture back to you.
But, darling, are you waiting, still in love,
Or are you moving on a private path?
I hope you’re thriving, glad–not thinking of
Your former fellow’s fate–my pain or wrath.
You’re She who Really Matters, Babydoll.
Transformed in guise, my love won’t change at all.
No sequels yet. Why not write one?
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Inspired by (sequel to):
The end I seek, I cannot see from here
I do not know exactly what I’ll find
Or even if I can suppres…Finishing Line
- Published 4 years ago.
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