His prose was imposing, beguiling, composing.
Impeccable words so smooth, fine and inviting.
The girls would swoon at the sound of his voice.
They were swept away and had no choice.
To be led into his inner sanctum by binding ties.
Trapped in his web of finely woven lies.
Caught in his grip of imposing prose,
Living lives without meaning except what he knows.
If only I could reach them with rhythm and rhyme,
To know the joy of song and dance in their time.
Fly free a prancing and break loose their bonds,
Like fairy godmothers waving magic wands.
With feathery pen and swift, satirical nose,
I'd break through his heavy, imposing prose.
And cast him out for the lout that he is.
Photo Courtesy Lane Arts Council
More Poems
My Place
Read War's End the Novel
Copyright 2005 © Ronald W. Hull
1/22/05
