Love can come in multiple forms from many directions, shine brightly and open yourself up to receiving.
Which vice do you want, I have so many.
Vices and me well, they’re ten a penny.
In fact, if I didn’t have a couple or three.
It’d be so extremely boring, being just me.
The tipples I have, laughing with friends.
Love of handbags, that never quite ends.
Fast cars and speed, as long as their safe.
Holidays plenty, all and over the place.
If I didn’t have vices, there’d be just me.
Along with a bank balance, clearer to see.😉
Late summer sun, still shining as bright.
The days are shorter, soon comes the night.
You saw us through, with buckets and spades.
Down by the seaside, kids paddle and wade.
Melted the ice creams, warmed fruit to ripen.
You pulled out all stops, our days you did lighten.
Soon you must travel, to Summer’s beyond.
But know when you do, you’ll be missed when gone.
You are extremely professional,
an expert in your game.
Your clearly far superior,
to the others who do the same.
You are an artist in your craft,
artworks are like no other.
So can you play the game of life,
be at one with one another?
Your works of art astounding,
they prove to be the best.
Professionally speaking now,
you pass on every test.
Your flying high on all counts,
so far in front of me.
But will you share what you have,
for all the world to see?
People crowd to hear you,
file to get your book,
Your name is in the media,
Your time is not for nothing,
you command a mighty fee.
But when it comes to those in need,
will you give yourself for free?
In response the The Daily Prompt – Expert
I wrote this a couple of years back, based on an old man I passed every day. I don’t see him any more and imagine he might have gone home. He was a lovely old gentleman and we always exchanged greetings on passing. I’m re-blogging in his memory.
The old man sits on the bench outside of the pub a sandwich left by a thoughtful stranger beside him. This is his world, his bench and at this moment in time his very existence. He is always there, whatever the weather and whatever the time of year. He sits, one weary leg crossed over the other looking at the traffic on the busy road as if he might be surveying a beautiful scene and maybe to him it is. The locals think they know him, wave and call out on passing. They leave him the odd sandwich or pack of tobacco and call him mate, although no one really knows him, where he comes from and who he was once. The men that frequent the pub stop and talk to him on occasion, maybe while having a cigarette outside. He welcomes the conversation but does not demand the attention…
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