I wrote a poem and had lines leftover.
Now, they're rattling around like a box full of bones.
Stretch me out.
Smooth me like parchment.
Banging my brain for a verse to call home.
But, the rhyme has been written,
and the tale's filled the page.
Ink me with henna.
Ink me with want.
So, leftover lines you'll just have to wait.
For Open Link Night at dVerse