She's like the minute hand on a clock
- tiny, fragile, deterred by any rock,
Going in circles, stuck in one day,
Alternating between August and May.
Her mannerisms, true, are lovely at first,
But everyone should have some thirst
For adventure; yet for her, there is certainly none.
Instead of a billion parallels, for her, there's only one.
YOU ARE READING
A phone book
PoetryA loose continuation of A Few Hysterical Words, this time focused on character descriptions.
