Readily it comes to me,Easily, like a skin I slip into,Judiciously chosen for comfort.Even when unsought, it sitsClose by, ready to offer itself.Take nothing for granted,It whispers. Question all motives.Overt or hidden, it never leaves,Never leaves me be. Some days, slow days, it seemsEasy-going as though, for that moment, it mightNot bother anyone. Trickster.Sly thing.Continue reading “Unmasking Acrostic”
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The Consolations of Writing 