|
By Rhetoric Date: 2001 Dec 08 Comment on this Work [[2001.12.08.22.52.26683]] |
|
She is a strange little girl, that doll of mine. Her queer, laughable moments hang softly between the true animated reactions of her life. She cannot predict her disposition, nor would my heart ever try to look deeper into that angelic gapped grin she flashes. Oh Katy, little girls such as you ballerina dance about moods like a kite to the wind. When will she ever come down for a breath? She is a shining star to me, that whimsical gift of mine. Deliberate sounds make folly or pain of any second she is on stage in plain view. With all the tears and through many a labored slumber, spent catering to you, I would never sigh and whisper for the rain to cease following its path. Each storm wailed aloud brings minutes or hours of clear eyes and flirtatious therapy. She plays me with metronome precision. Where will your little feet take you today? |