These sleek pages make my bimonthly bible;
Like Last Supper savored, with conviction.
They are rooted in something old, primal.
Inhaled so fast; it must be addiction.
The roles, though imagined, are dynamic.
Caution, the plots are filled with dreamy mist.
These are new classics, tragic and epic.
Triumphs are true, but failures too persist.
Reds are bright, matched only by warring Mars;
Blues this pure, very few feathers possess.
Stretching muscles are paired with ragged scars.
Colors do gleam after every success
How could this dull world attempt to compare,
When the best time of day is the time spare?
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