You opened the book,
and your picture fell from the page,
Unnerving even you,
when you think you've hidden from me,
Having accounted for the unsubstantial,
from your toes to your heart,
Having discovered that peerless part of you,
best read from front to back,
You once believed in certain things,
and the stories you grew up with,
But I trust you to be happy in the end,
by any means
(Leit Motif)
I've the impulse,
itch, or desire
to hear the stories
you grew up with,
the homespun
vagary in meaning,
the surety
of your mien
and air
Please Rate This Submission:
- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
- 5
