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