The Pride of Dame Olympia

The pride of Dame Olympia, would give her such an ache for it.
Being noble, debonnaire, she never should have cared.
The daring Miss Olympia, would show each one to everywhere.
The guise, the swap, the endless stares, she wouldn't ever wander there.

In her space, there never was a filling.
In her time, there never was a waste, of air.

Until she came out of it, the whole time out of it, the zone she was into it, her own space and out of it, alone.

All the stories she would tell were manifested for the liking listeners, in a small but tasteful nook of town.
Simple tales were wound up in her head, and they were strung out to be dead, confused and bound up to the bed, but she was fine to lay them to the rest.

Her echoes were pinching at the caves. They defied to fill the hollow space.
Any type of word she used, Olympia made no excuse, she said the things that follow her today.

Poetry of a Querious

Couldn't day come to fill me with words,
Scattered on a page, unorganised and incomplete
Cliche to break, habits of mine
Remind when words come, to mine own self I will be won,
Adorned with pages, darned and trying
Carry me none, when I am crying
Out for new and in with old, waiting for my letters told.

Words come hither, splash with me
Find the phrases, letting be
Sentenced daily, drink with wine
Kind tormented, that's the line.