PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

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The witness grabbed the left arm hard, evinced a whelp from her captive single audience, then hissed almost whisper-purring, "This is no end of a whale tale, no I am here to tell thee ending, no mythic battle or seting-afire nuclear atmospheric warfare for epic pages. This is a war of the word." 

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In the distance tolled wedding bells proclaiming fresh fowl on sale. No one expected dragons bugling (dragons apparently bugle) at the curb outside the peculiar pub. Declarations of property dimmed and a shotgun warning made no dent in pain promising lock-eyed intentions. From quadraphonic soeakers Etta James peaked: "Wait! Wait! Stop the wedding!"

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History repeating, predictable, embedded in a killing language, neither an occasional vampire, 

some toil and trouble, nor the odd bone-shiftability of fine acting by Anthony and Benicio, rather a sudden scene shift made possible by virtue of the cutting room floor. This was no Cafe, no Vorkorsigan serial, no scale forming plague at the infected now sloughing off once zombie-clutched forearm. Reality is in an I declare war with odes of an adept griot, culminating in the fist of an old fashioned jaw breaker blow! Instead, the frizzle-afroed said, "I belong to him."

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The gentle set of fingertips to chin, "A woman belongs to her own soul," it avowed. In the ethereal smokey tavern's air Aretha peeled "I make me feel like a natural woman." Ceiling tiles chipped and floated, landed on the gypsy rover's lady's up-lifted self-worth.

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Wheels became the predominant theme. He drove steer for fun, drives the Tesla like a Daytona pro, until, cell phoned, ten backup bikers become the chorus for: You won't come back from Dead Man's Curve.
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The cops were at coffee and pastries when a word accompanied a wand wave and the foreigner's vehicle, chaps, jangling spurs, all ten gallons, and the liberated woman, disappeared into the thin horizon. Definitely bring up the Queened and quintessential Another One Bites The Dust end song moment. Potter, Granger, and Weasley would have been spell bindingly astonished. Temporally transported, the good Time Demon left her here cursed to attest betimes the legend, the perfect prophetization of its visit inscribed on her fresh memoried perpetually over-loaded brain. 

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The wedding guests were vacating via the automated doors of the Fresh Prince Chapel, tucking unused coupons back in purses and wallets, swinging bags full of arrow shot free range on sale today only unplucked chickens. Released, no longer eye-enthralled, walking away the belated guest, the mildly superstition arrested listener looked back. Ghosted, ghoul-bespooked, there was no one there where the sprite of a frizzle-headed storyteller stood a few seconds before.

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Lady A

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HERE ENDETH THE LESSON

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