A lady’s instincts remain under scrutiny, as though each validation
of rationale is fodder. I’ve no interest to imitate men, as heroic and
pragmatic as many appear. My intelligence challenges even the
advanced gentleman. Intrigued by imagination, they ask questions,
encourage discourse, at first, until my argumentative nature annoys
them. It’s ludicrous. Odious, this attraction to all the irritants which
ardor begets. Arrogance, pride and belligerence are not admirable
traits, and yet ... and yet... on HIM each seems undeniably fascinating.
Oh, heart of mine, I’ve trusted in your ability to observe character,
uncover certain aspects that aloofness may appropriate.
Love is such a strain upon the illusions we attain, vigilantly, over time.
Is this obstinacy? Darcy understands me and this alone makes amends
for insults, for inflexibility. Should I demand of him excellence,
bonis artibus, which I’ve not obtained?
Charlatan! I must acknowledge that I’m impatient, quarrelsome and
fussy, as well. I love a man indisputably, passionately, evermore his
and his alone, despite arguments. How overwhelming but astounding.
This affliction, this adoration, came unexpectedly like a will-o-the-wisp
I happened on the other night, enchanted by affection resounding.
**David, lol, I just reread your rules AFTER writing this... awk... took 4 HOURS! Now, I see that the vowels must be in a certain order. Don't worry. I'll pull this from your contest. But I wanted you to read this, anyway, as you inspired it. I hope to give your contest another go, perhaps next week. Cheers!
Copyright © Cyndi MacMillan