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Sequestered Oak

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From the bark of a sequestered oak, my tome-shanty, I never laid claimed to be a synonym or any other glamor to fame, by writing perfect words.

Just a bookshop keeper with a mellow heart and a bobbin for a mind, spinning prose, poetic clamoring to woo a miss from the inkwell, scribbling, of landscapes and meadows.

Beneath the valiance of a noontime sky, until you awakened this motley old fool with a rosebud’s kiss to do me awhile, as I fell over-heals and wilted, when you gave a hungry eye.

Finding love in your bliss, bequeathing to me poetic oxygen, while sweeping up a pile of synonyms feeling the breath of a smile, from the bark of a sequestered oak.

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