That writer I love sits in that bar
Penning that story I’ll read tomorrow;
His words are like butter: salted, untempered
And glide ever so easy.
That writer I love spins tales magnetic
As his eyes when he pens them;
Of flavour and warmth they are full
Of the sun and skies they talk
Of the world and across they take me.
That writer I love tells me of lives
Of times I know not
Of landscapes of colour
That I cannot paint.
That writer I love leaves me hanging
At every line, I fall in love again;
“Close your eyes, I’ll tell you a story”
He says and keeps me waiting
To wake up to him glide away
His black cape trailing.
His black cape trailing.
