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.








This flow is slow but insightful, and I like the second verse a lot.
Thank you, Fia.
Ah so thoughtful and classy. I feel a little enlightened after reading this sir.
I appreciate that.
Wonderful. I loved the poetic oxygen.
Thank you kindly.
There is something very solid about an oak. And the nature of trees is their flexibility. This was incredibly beautiful
Thank you, Willow, for dropping by my little bottle of ink.