and a snare in her hand. she looked so mild, like a child sweetly smiled, called me"friend".
I held her waist, in youthful haste, her lips to taste, she slipped my hold, she took no offence, but with a sidelong glance, sharp as a lance, said, "not so bold."
Again and again, i try in vain to hold in chain this fleeting charm, with a sirens skill, she eludes me still and despite my will, leaves my arm.
What stayed with you?
A line that lingered, a feeling, a disagreement. Great comments are as valuable as the original piece.
Responses1
So who's she - life, hope, death?
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