Monday, January 28, 2019

Running of the Bull

I find myself feeling a yen
To let the words run once again
Something forcefully held
Can only be quelled
So long before the old pen

Becomes a circular rut
Just open the gate if it’s shut
They long to be freed
And loudly stampede
Across the plains that abut

The woods that encircle a pond
Caressing each flower and frond
With ringlets of rhyme
To echo through time
And all of creation beyond.

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