Strange as it seems - I can't write for you. No rhyme, no meter can contain that irrepressible beat of yours, nor your wry smile nor your quick wit. There is a part of me that yearns to capture you in the light, but I see that it is not to be. When I think of you, my mind can only bring up darkness, in shades of creeping greys and translucent blacks. If you were anything, you'd be Thunder.. lying in meditative repose until CRACK!
and then you're off again, chuckling on the wind, searching, drifting to unleash that soft-spoken but hard-hitting wisdom of yours on willing victims, but also, often, on unsuspecting passerbys, who shake their heads in confusion of the exploding knowledge.
I can't spin songs for you, dear.
But I'm heartened to know you're only a wag and a bark away,
the loveable Stray.
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