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The testing grounds of poetry by the-arraignment

Upon my soft upholstered chair
I sat and spoke into the air
For they were listening, you see
The ones who come and sit with me

I cannot see them, though I try
Their form is but a wistful sigh
More solemn than a flow'ring tree
The ones who come and sit with me

I have no proof that they exist
But still my thoughts of them persist
A secret kept? A fantasy?
The ones who come and sit with me

My audience in silence waits
As softly I pass though their gates

I'm done writing

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Eh, toss this story
6:10
They were listening.

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