Forgive us, Freya:
our greatest enemies feast on our own fears: fault-
lines. That freewill transfixed as it falters on
a focus for Friday,
or whatever hour frees us: off
Even fathers get few field days–
come far, feelings fragile as peacock feathers.
A defeating but forgivable refrain: you’ll for certain
flounder under the flimsy profit of prophets.
An affront to a feasible fantasy full of fortune.
A perfect French braid isn’t a luxury every high schooler can afford
when she faces the music in marching band. Add that to
the list of all those feats my fingers have failed to master.
Some fresh foolin around for y’all!
Yes! Love the wordplay and alliteration! 🙂
The last stanza is fantastic. Image and sound and word play all work
good poeting here