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Consumed


I sit down at the table,
Paper in front of me,
Pencil in hand.
The paper is blank,
It has been for hours.
The words won't come
Like they usually do.
I know what I want to say,
But still the words escape me.
My mind paints a lovely picture,
But when the time comes to tell of it,
Some thing stops me from writing it down.
The page is blank
Except for three words,
"It was love."
They say it all.
No poetic flourishes,
No rhythm and rhyme,
Nothing, but those three words.
Well, what else needs to be said?

 

Crystal Middlemas 
E-Mail jitter-bug@rocketmail.com