October Octaves
Lost, oh must I write of common, autumn leaves?
Or, Mom’s hot, fragrant apple pie?
Of my lovely, cobalt, silky blouse.
Or raindrops sprinkling on my house?
How to pen of that which really means?
Common nothings leave me dry!
Like a lost, pointltless poetess mouse,
Worse, a bland and boring souse?
Am I here to speak my truth or just what it seems?
It makes this poetess,take a frustrated sigh.
Maybe in books, I should just browse?
Or put down my pen, and take a stroll out of the house?
10/27/2021
~5~
Quatrain. a,a,b,b
Copyright © Panagiota Romios | Year Posted 2021
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