Annie Brock’s the kind of girl who
Bows in and out of others’ worlds,
Coming, going, always knowing,
Deep in thought, this mystery girl.

Everywhere she goes, she’s known by
Freckled youths and fully grown,
Going, coming, singing, humming,
Half in dream, she walks alone.

In matters of the heart she fumbles
Just as a clown or a gymnast tumbles—
Knowing, thinking, floating, sinking—
Love is there and then it crumbles.

Men to Annie Brock remain
Novel, unexplored terrain,
Offering, taking, trembling, shaking,
People only cause her pain.

Quite the girl, she seems to be the
Reason for my sanity, as
Singing, humming, going, coming,
Through her hair she looks at me.

Under stress and clouds of grief,
Veiled in prayers for some relief,
Writing, hoping, praying, coping, she
X-es out devout beliefs.

Yesterday she fell in love, her
Zenith towering far above,
Annie kissing, gently giving, as
Breathlessly she learned of love.

07/09/2003

Posted on 07/23/2003
Copyright © 2024 Devon E Mattys