It was that kind of rope, One that lacked character. But that’s where he saw hope, Anyone would have considered it litter. A girl, a rope, “why don’t I tie her up?” He thought. He did! No comfy gap. He couldn’t be still. Nor petty. He is not a man to defend mediocrity. The lights flickered as he tested… He touched me. I fidgeted. In meticulous fashion, He worked his tools. I stood and watched like a fool. I was bundled from hip to waist, I had never beheld such ritual in haste. He threw in a cockled shirt,Beads in pink, the colors began to flirt. With bright pink lipstick to summarize, He brewed a colorful surprise. No threat of a storm. Because the lightning was fantastic. Guided by his keen directives, it was a delight to watch him perform. In the thick of the tumult, He spun magic.
I spent my day ROBED in the ROPES of a creative photographer.