 | James Callahan Jan 19 | Writing like this was once a joy
which came easily and early, excitedly, freely
as Christmas morning's new toy
dreamed and hoped for, wished, ideally; with Pollyannaish tones on parade
words dancing and gliding, mating and meeting
like the way of a man with a maid
a romance and affair, tender, fleeting; now lonely lines trouble the mind
pages toneless and joyless, lifeless, pointless
wondering wordless and unkind
no address to access, just success to transgress. | | | |  | You can also reply to this email to leave a comment. | | | | |
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