Musings from a writer's journal
Early Poetry

Twas a lovely Sunday afternoon.

The sun filled the sky.

It pealed through green velvet curtains,

and put dust before my eye.

In the musty room I sat inhaling

the smell of vintage books

I lounged upon a settee chair

a sip of wine I took.

It was quite brisk and sour

but I paid no mind.

I gazed into the corner

at a rotten orange rind.

My hair was flowing freely

enchanted by the light.

My feet were bare and thin.

I had been here all the night.

There, a stash of scattered books

lying on the ground.

I considered their ruffled pages.

I did not make a sound.

Twas a typical Sunday afternoon

lazing away in the house.

I dozed away, wine in hand

as quiet as a mouse.

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