Wednesday

The stupid poking poem

Strong the lady and her conscience,
Voice is feeble but she leaves no signs.
Her tune is so melodious,
You just want to listen to.
Even if you are another genius,
Is something you'll always surrender to.
And when she resigns to her gravity,
You could feel, in the tone of her brevity.
Your literal feelings turn into the bad Morse,
And you start thinking, what could be more worse!
But there's a target that needs to be met,
A dream, a wish that she has to get.
So she says bye, she knows her engine needs to be fed.
This ain't a poem, or a story,
It's just a draft, to merely document her glory.
She may read this and think what a waste,
But it's so early, she doesn't knows my taste.
Levels are high,
embankment too low,
Floodgates can't handle more,
the imaginations will flow.
Words aren't enough now,
It's an open cage,
But as her dreams come true and she opens up,
This graffiti will be continued,
as I may, or may not, become her stage.
It's not a farcry, and the desire doesn't age,
The future is bright, you might see a castle built out of a page.
Hahahahaha, what a joke,
And although I'm a decent bloke,
There's no real intention, I just wanted to poke...