In the silence of chaos,
there ran a line,
dividing the tempers and misunderstandings with a clean stroke.
Who wouldn’t take,
the olive’s smell,
while the night seemed young as day.
Pushing harder,
I took a breath,
Stretching to hold, willing to let go.
She stayed on,
Fortune’s fame,
You don’t question what’s rolling your way.
After ages of distance,
we wished good night,
For the company still brought us happiness, if nothing else.
Then again, I had rhymed.
Then again, I hadn’t.
The muse was back for a night.
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