Once upon a rhyme,
I fell for a scroll
–not the dead Sea kind–
who
tip-tapped
tip-tapped
her way
into my heart
—which grew like a Grinch
around Christmas—
until 3
diss’s
—times a thousand–
altered placement
a change no
pumpkin-turned-coach
could correct
only the scroll herself
could re’right outcome
–a shift she attempted
by furling
—a rookie mistake—
by pointing
—so rued—
and good ole’ misdirection
—she got lost; a problem on accounta’ a low-carb diet—
until one day, that scroll
added pages–
pages & pages of brand new
storyline
she’d resisted
—at least thrice—
since scroll had always worked autonomously in
antiquated tower, lacking even the most fundamental cell reception
a storyline
–as old as it was new—
including bit players,
and background,
subtext
and sojourn,
beginning in the middle
and branching out
–side to side—
scroll became a book
without artifice
—but plenty of made-believe—
which cover intrigued
and hid nothing all
at once
. . .
upon
a
rhyme.
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