'neath the shallow cries, of cigarettes,
of playful synonyms.
Them, the wind scolds,
she reprimands impatience,
murdering writer's delight,
in wisdom - its seldom vengeance.
Her tiptoe to their temper, teasing;
deriding these wicked rhymes,
acute in perspective, conscience slaying mine.
Have they soared away?
In diffidence, they always did,
mocking gratis admiration,
in a way these hands have bled.
