Fantasy

She writes as if enough isn’t enough.
I close my eyes…and is it fantasy
Or is it really there? I’d call her bluff,
But saner thoughts just make it hard to see

How what she wrote was meant to be a cry
Out for something else. I do know better.
Good evidence abounds that poets fly
Word balloons that are no more a letter

Of want, than fictions from poetic heart
Of one who wonders of a different time,
The purpose only to evoke a start
To conversation carried out in rhyme.

A shame, as different souls might had a chance
To find each other in a different dance.


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