A Softer Curveball
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He ran the world and when he thought of stopping,
the race track played another trick on him.
His wild hair halo 'round a face, with beads
of fine salt tickle, tease. They run down his neck.
Then, as evening entered on the blood orange
gravel, and nebula witches whirled upon the
green grass, he stopped and stayed and stared.
Alone there, he dropped the manly guise,
his gait a slow lush grace with careful steps.
His arms gracefully wrapped around the one,
that during daytime, always will be known as he,
but night throws softer curveballs at her.
A shy butterfly, stepped out of a soft cocoon,
ready to step back into a life of caterpillar.
***
January 17, 2017
Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2017
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