Short Prattled Poems

There was once a lady named Babs Bower

   Who lived 'cross town on a street called Tower

      She could talk you to death

         Not coming up for breath

            Gabbed with gusts up to ninety miles per hour...

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Fool an i
we lay so incredulously
In a love....
That it seems our sorrows rest in mind
and all is enabled,
now we able,
to weave mesh of this light as we bind...
seemingly caught up in webs of time.

But stood it may
like a shadow 
was the thoughts that attest between us..
how uncouth the prattled battle lay,
all it consumes,
as it presumes ,
to arrest and attest for our lives...
keeping us caught up in lies 'till we die....

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