Mickey Tunes a Loon

A little frolic ——- A little mischief ——- guarded at the gallops and of brisk appeal
A guidance that parleys ——- Off the coast to measure the stroll
Like any sapphire dribbling in disbelief —— of counting odysseys
Picking studded lather that has foregone movement
Slipping it into a daze —— leveling life’s fortunes
Condensed in a thrift to dally novels out her hair
She speaks too ——– She has held aloft her vacuum ——– Meek meagracy has been believed
So morning snivels away to do a rigged phantasmagoria

By nipping in the knitted nickel ———— or a nystagmus yupping drool
Early on, the maze has wizard-ed it, to capture a chimera ——– or mold it if it could
Layers of borders askew beneath the bevel ——— They kip at cut and nick at noon
That’s how the wielded boot belted in question ——— a query only to Proof
Time rings bells and the confined artist pools his air
Lifting a screw out of the hole ——– or tilting the brew as last bubbles freckle
It jeopardizes a glut ——— It soothes the sleuth ——— Finally it fools the flower —— Only it could
Then emerges the butterfly from her cocoon, wondering “Are all the colors an order of me to root my food.”

© Prateek Joshi and WordPress, 2018
Image © Unknown

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