Poetic Fury

Don't pull your hair in such a rage and play havoc with my meadows where I adore to sow poems. I don't care about your fury; I'm afraid you'd crush the words I had designed only for you; their ink would stain your pearly hands. I care too much about your hair where my poetic meadows rest and all the charcoal ink I seek. I care too much about your hands. There, I have wheat, ivory, and a sun which shines for me to write.