Object, the most of it like jasmine tea, et al.
To have, well, yes —
unable to swagger or break out into song,
settling for a bit of Victoria’s chocolate crumble,
that is, unable to cushion this lackluster fall
I have not, well, no, I have not exactly been open,
though open to digression; well, then, spit it out,
who cares for sentiment or aura or ambiquity unless…
unless they can be used for further gain.
So, let the Queen of Spades dictate.
It’s humbug if it doesn’t serve.
What is this mumble-jumble all about, anyway?
Frank C. Praeger is prolific writer from Michigan. When he moves his pen, he stamps out his own style that mirrors a line vanishing into the horizon. His poems have been published all over the interworld.
Copyright © 2015 by Frank C. Praeger