I was supposed to muse over the alphabet
Counter set to one month.
What all reasons I have to shun it -
Not one, not two - but a million.
The daily grind, I say comes in way -
The must dos, the mundanes, the many digresses
It's been over a year I'd abandoned this space
While in abandon I wile away the limited, numbered days.
Hobby this is, I say to myself. Now I write for a reason.
Treason this is, to keep away, for getting it out -
Helps. It just helps.
With what? With regulation, moderation, revelation and another tion I cannot think of
From the top of my head.
But down there, at the Bottom of my heart, I know, This is where I belong.
Getting em out - while letting them loose
To fly across the blues - the ones above and the ones inside alike!
Now does the wing span cover miles like a metal bird does
Or just inches in splash of color, and delicate as petals
Matters not - size, shape and make
As long the flight it takes!
