I can’t recall the story,
I remember it quite well,
and since there is no story,
it’s a story I will tell.
It was a dark and stormy night,
the skies were bright and clear,
as we a cask of wine unstopped,
to have a glass of beer.
She wanted me to hold her,
so I promptly set her free.
I loved her oh so very much,
she didn’t mean a thing to me.
Silver were the golden hues,
of spring that winter’s day,
and when I saw her leaving,
I knew she’d come to stay.
We’ve grown to loathe each other,
we have a love both fine and rare,
and since she’s always with me
I can’t find her anywhere.
This is truly a gem. I lament the fact that so few people make a distinction between the lofty art of poetry and poetic prose (poetic: like poetry), and how infinitely more creative and skilled the rhyming bard is than the prose writer no matter the beauty of the free style verse crafted. Curmudgeon, you’re one in a million, no, in a hundred million.
Thank you so very much Luther, (seahand). I’m grateful for your kind remarks.
Agree with Luthers comments – I love this quirky piece of poetry and am sharing it to my poetry magazine page as well
Thanks Maureen. I’m honored. 🙂