A BATTLE RAGES
Within walls of my mind
as words bounce, flounce
and dance wildly.
To create a verse, perhaps terse
It is my choice to voice
Whether prettily nice or not
For sharp shards of thunder rain
to fall, sting nastily on hatless head
or
Soft, sweet droplets of a summer shower
to freshen and soften sun baked clay
and so soothe my tempest strewn brain.
© MRL 21/03/23
