The Fall of a Mop. By CpSingleton © 2014
There she sits with mop in hand,
Her favourite of a former band.
His glasses reflected by the sea,
Where her heart and his are free.
Across grimy docks to a tower,
His words create like magic power,
Until there stood an indelible Mark,
Outside a car, in front of park.
Without strength to clear his Dirty Mac,
Their paths collide like whip-crack.
The mop falls down, no new to shine,
Forever fills this heart of mine.
What lessons left for us to learn?
Words, like skin, can feel the burn.
A tripping over fruity fields.
The legacy of sword he wields.