Thursday, 9 April 2015

Sporadic Stint

Sitting quietly not quite alone
Nothing too much going on
No hint of shouts no trivial doubts
Or pressing next from thereupon

In amongst ones cross connections
I feel a sense of sneaking whisper
May happen by to catch one's eye
Not even crystal clear is crisper

Without help or any hindrance
A smothered obvious hailing wail
Will strike alight so blinding bright
Where such a winner cannot fail

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