She wasn't dainty,
like a bird. Possibly hollowed, and absurd. Twas no man out there quite aligned with her. No muscle-bound white knight scouring the Great Divide searching for her soul. No, no, nooo. Surely not one as spirited as she. Drumming up uncertainty in sure-footed fashion. Loosening up the buckles, to be wounded when they fasten. Cooing at the moon as though it mattered. Grooming thick-boned feathers, distant remnants in a bloodline of Celtic madhatters. To think so, she would be remiss. Mistaken, and a fool. She wasn't dainty like a bird. Possibly hollowed, and absurd. Holding on to hope that her creative soul had a match, in the wide blue yonder. Twas an idea to ponder while she folded lonely socks and tucked her kids to bed. An idea to set on spin cycle in her not-so-dainty head.
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AuthorMolly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw. Categories |