On Thursday morning
A beautiful woman
Came walking down
A well-worn track.
In her left hand
She bore
A sceptre
But what's that in her right?
A sycophant, perhaps
Or yet a symposium.
The ways of imagination
Are sometimes sibilant.
And sometimes not.
Imagining is a moment's hobby, perhaps, coping with one's past imaginations are a lifetime practice.
ReplyDeleteDid a butterfly dream he was a journalist? Or did a journalist dream he was a poet?
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