Nay. I am tuckered with this day, there will, hence, be a cease of all neighs and brays and trotting-cantering-galloping ways.

I understand you are a mogul unaccustomed to sitting on the receiving end of a renouncement and I would prefer to prevent this situation from progressing into a pother, but your gifts of mane-do and sexy saddle will not persuade. And, if you are thinking that dangling an oaty electuary in front of my reins will reign in a desired result, you are welcome to wait for my response behind these hefty hind legs.

I am hitting the hay twelve minutes ago, but if you would like to hit me up with some hay and other grains for a breakfast ambigu of sorts when I arise, I may consider giving you an extra couple hours of ride time regarding your rushes—contingent, of course, on the same temporal allotment for shiny-coat brushes. ; )


I am busted; the e-waste was not discarded according to safety standards.

Bust out the champagne: my first novel, already vaunted in its first week of release, is set to vault to best sellers’ top spot.

Bust, ingenious in the manner in which stone appears supple, can you teach me how not to have my vitamined visage relay a hardened heart?

Busted concepts of identity may occur during psychological trials and even though a ballute cannot prevent such mental breaks, one can balloon both self-image and self-worth with level-headed love—that which balances bumps with bounces. ; )


Envelope opened a poem’s grandiloquence, whose sentiment spent the evening on nightstand before waking amidst cousins hands had crankled.

Voice opened an attempt at a melody meant to charm, but if any notes would have endeared, they met instead a bar of amusia.

Closed window atop lighthouse’s cockle stairs precluded view known to invite nudges, so fingers swiped away. Then, as hope reblurred, warmth enclosed in gelid airs awared itself, prompting a moment—unplanned. And, perfect. : )


Hold a blink and think, “Could there be another place for me?”

Drails catch their slight interests, but not mine. Still, I feel caught and unreleased.

Which is home, the kiddie pool in which one swims or the ocean aquamarine in which one daydreams at skies cerulean?

Some may question what reason prompts a soul to emigrate from halcyonic simplicity to obstreperous calamity, but forget not that it is the shift to that which is not yet habituated that elicits fulfillment.

Coral and molly-blob, kin of different kinds, will ever remain long-lost. Flipper-self, though, is sure, by shore, gratis swevens are worth the cost. ; )

J. P. D. T.

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