Here is where the gold
gets all tangled up in brown,
dancing tangos with the crimson
in the old, tired oaks.-July 27, 2011
I hate being a writer sometimes. You think you have inspiration, and it stops after one sentence. So I made a poem. I think it’s awfully pretty, even if it didn’t flesh out into more.
Pretty indeed! Once again, you found the light.
Yes, but the poem is glad you stopped. It is perfect. 🙂