Across the bar, there are seats for inspiration
Beauty with a knack for distraction
This poetry thing has no timing indeed
I would be wondering around with no need
To tackle my pen to writing amidst the block
Like a lightning bolt, it will strike uninvitedly
And summons a magma to this volcano
Hear me mumbling in my own world
Back to the northern star that led me here
Across the bar, this is how this erupted
Oh yes her, but the rose tatted on her arm
That reminds me of the parable inside Africa
I’m sure other women have rose tattoos
But not her rose. 
Her glasses may be pink
Like the paint in Pretty Boy’s painting hands
But her rose has something that assures me
Heaven is not closed even for the forlorn me.