Winter hastened her steps. Though not yet here,
Her grey and tearful complexion already
Frowned over Summer’s last canopy.
Bluesy notes, trickling down from
Guitarist’s fingers, across the roads they swam
Celebrating another page blankly written, idly flipped.
Is it always so hard? Hammering lines into
Poorly formed shapes and watch them
With grievous eyes like a father would an ill born child.
But when thinking of that filled was a new ardent page.
30th March afternoon
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