Technically, he's a mere ghost,
Lurking in the files of unread post.
He forms judgements, alwats strict,
From him I've never received a single toast.
From across the globe, yet at home,
For all paths still lead to Rome
And a foreign accent never hinders
His endless presence, reminiscent of seafoam.
I said a word, a punch was the reply,
As well as a flawless explanation why.
Punctual, semantically accurate,
At least the surface level, and I cannot pry.
YOU ARE READING
A phone book
PoetryA loose continuation of A Few Hysterical Words, this time focused on character descriptions.
