A Droll Midnight Stroll

The writer says, the wind silently whispers
The petite woman stood in the brisk weather,
Her soul cold to the bone, as if it kissed her
These monotonous sounds are writers' whimpers

She says, he left and suddenly my heart turned to stone
He says, I finally got promoted, I am upon my new throne
He says, even at night I still think about her in insomniac-ridden illness
She says, my parking meter is close to off, but business is business

Where is art, with no control
Not a boundary...something that takes an idea's soul
And keeps it whole
I look at modern poets, with such droll
It seems like they are all, on the same midnight stroll

By: ©William J Dorsey Jr. (Copyright) October 23, 2013