err the wind, regal the dance.
Not haughty the pointless chance.
Yet it is and was to a vital point, rediculous
To the wisest fool just funny and quaint, harmonious.
And also to some harmonic low.
The soul tame and tawdry the heart.
Yet in beauty the flow.
After love killed the upstart.
it twas not the "trusome" person, that was the artificial created.
and unto the true.
always came they now, just belated.
won again by friend and new mother, from higher the farce, even through some brother.
to uphold the authentic.
it was actually sardonic wit, just dramatic
That,saved the pure, from fate semi automatic.
Free from chaos, because of her.
As long as I mind the only love I ever got.
A true romantic I am not.
Yet have mad skill at the same time.
©Pat Connor
P