Silver – stanza 12

He didn’t care for crowds, less for fawning fans
But the only way he could possibly identify
Her was to look her in the eye, witness
The infinity in her aeon-wise soul
But the dives and bars offered nothing
A few drinks, gallons of coffee, cigarettes
Staining fingers and teeth, soaking pages
Of hand written scrawls of emotion
Allison didn’t read much poetry, taking in
Pieces lightly, when offered them by
Enthusiastic friends, a line here, a verse
There might lodge temporarily in her mind
But while she didn’t entirely get the art
She believed that time and diligence
Would reveal the sweet meats within
So, from time to time, she read a poem
When suggested by some poetic friend
Allison was a dancer, an artistry of focus
The practitioner of any of the other arts
May become monomaniacal, single minded
In their pursuit of anything else but dance
Requires devotion from life’s inception
Until our bodies fail, wither and collapse
Long before the ripe old age of forty
She had been dedicated from her youth
In class at three, some ridiculously young
Point of development, once, twice, three
Times a week slowly expanding into
Every day, morning, noon and night

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About Lord Malinov

Lord Malinov, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet
This entry was posted in books, fiction, literature, novels, personal, poetry, writing. Bookmark the permalink.

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