The Novelist

Princess Purple

Hers is a beauty of eloquent pen,

Trilogies etched with a holy amen;

Fragile and humble, she offers her soul,

Teardrops her parchment, resilience her scroll.

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Grace Rain

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She’s tired,

so tired,

tired of lists and the

obligatory dance of the

well-worn rut, the

choreography of the

damned. So she’s

letting go, letting

it fall, raindrops

baptising tear ducts

in a redemptive soak,

epsom salts of

grace.

 

 

 

 

Heart-Strings

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He played her heart

strings, plucked each

one with practised

hand, ode to joy

.

in every note. By

the time her soul

was his, he had changed

his tune, cadence

.

soured by off-colour

harmonies out of

place with love

songs; now her

.

heart-strings sag,

derelict, waiting

to be moved by

a new duet.

 

The Shallow End of the Gene Pool

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He just can’ t get past

the shallow end of the gene pool –

his thoughts are skipping stones,

bouncing off a surface as smooth as glass.

Any conclusions which need to be drawn

are best left to the artists;

he is too occupied

in swallowing his own press

to go off the deep end.

Thin Ice

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Her thaw has begun.

But before he can dive into

her soul,

plumb the depths of her spirit,

he must first touch her heart.

And there,

he’s on

thin ice…