At The Fiddlers

Nights of dreams unhinged, thoughts untamed, possibilities without word count unleashed on the unsuspecting and their expectations, travelling miles of wonder on the band stand or at a table where laughter cuddles up with sullen faces. And we exhaled.

Charge a man for what he has yet to see. Try a man for all he hoped to be. But don’t despise the girl at the edge of her seat, when she runs her hand through her hair and catches the light of your fixation. White faces filled with the black ink of reality can’t afford to hunt with bare eyes. Open up a trust fund daddy dearest of hugs and kisses to bruise cheeks with tenderness, and learn how to live on the compliment of silent gestures. And we prevailed.
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And at the bar a Loonat gambles her heart away with the fiance close by, watching hawk like, careful lady, be good, careful as you play in full sight, watch the men that delight in you, skip past the lies into your vacant soul, but he watches, and like Time, learns the proximity of her hope, drives his hands into hers, and closes the door behind you. And we sighed with relief.

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