TRITE

THE FRENZY OF MY FANCY I was lulled into a trance, on roofs the rain would dance me in a state of frenzy, inanity was my fancy. Even the words I would mutter like a hot knife through butter. A collage of creatures, with distinct features life small and large all on the same barge. A million bold backgrounds a million unidentified sounds. Visions become words I write still it all feels so trite. My belief strengthens I thank the heavens. A fleeting second, gladly beckoned. A brief moment barely a fragment. Always cherish, still I flourish. Never regret, once we met. Armand Hamouth