Butterfly kisses,
whispers of sweet promises.
He was caught red-handed,
stealing her heart in a wink.
Loving her was his crime;
a crime he'd willingly commit
for the rest of his life.
He needed no trial;
he all but waived his rights.
Darn the man, he pleaded guilty on sight!
Oh, the world can arrest him now,
and lock him up 'til eternity's flight.
Because the crime of loving
those pale-blue eyes
would make him
the happiest prisoner alive.
******
YOU ARE READING
Spilled Ink
PoetryA piece of soul in ink, and unto the paper it spilled. A collection of thoughts that rhyme from a wandering mind.
