Sat opposite was one flower by blue was stained,
In all smiles past her sadness drew that baned,
Look round, such voices sunk to inaudible applause,
It could be their smiles they chat time shall pause,
Who without pot ne safeguard, nor soil repose,
Little water but gin a few; this was least in dose.
Afront her first cup was but a blank book laid,
These were moments now her smile would fade,
I thigged her to this day now write what has come,
Even as the hours march to furore, tears yea some,
Then brought were more 'nough for blue ink vialled,
Each drop on page was now a prologue soon dialled,
Forget me, for I add null. Even this blank writ is art!
Where are club lights now whilst yours depart?
Yells would raise such ceilings in muted abyss fall,
Every second a pen vacilated, it was heart in lull!
Sung of song and this dance would surely quake,
What irony you took to say a man could stake,
When that bull you rode for quidsworth swooned,
Reaction brought ye upon broke and wound,
Yet still you'd dance! Charmed is such spirit here,
Yet still you'd prance! How now do bruises near?
Then cry as much you will, so long as you write!
Then die as much you will, so long as it's trite!
For such writing and triting, as one, two, three,
Were never you thought ere so easy, so free,
If you wanted, you could scribble, tear, leave,
Like a dolphin slapping the ocean for reprieve,
It would make no echo, no sound in Neptune,
So cast doting lies aghast a smile in vain so soon,
Depart your hand from Goghesque creases few,
This pointilleste writ tells a thousand points of you,
Now connect the dots, and see where wrongs lie,
Lest such wrongs seeped in blue doth protest nigh.

Then, I read the words that made her whole again.


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