Outside looking in
One sees what was not intend'd
For the curtains hanging all astir
Light and more are welcomed in by her.
Each thought come as a blur, forsook
Cascading words in a babbling brook
Falling on distant ears and eyes
Look at me, look at me she cries.
She's not alone,
Well Sandra, you are a busy little bee
Fly'n about so free
With opinions on most every thing
That makes you want to rhyme and sing.
Sure it it is when one discovers that prose
Isn't all that is needed to see
The beauty in writing (even if some can't rhyme)
And does free verse in their time.
So you like a spider's spinning away
To entrap a visitor in some sticky way
Then hold them secure in the web
For a future time (a meal?) instead.
(And thanks for your past comments.)
Poetry is the balm that cures
The aches and pain that endures
After the exercise of body or mind
That comes after; you will find.
After encounter with the outside world
Where events are in a constant swirl
But poetry is there to settle the mind
On what is right, wrong, indifferent or..., you'll find,