My writing group is debating the use of the word, Unquietly.

Unquietly prancing upon her brow,
words dart both in and out.
Into that fray her thoughts would linger,
But like the words, they meander up and down.
Upon the page her pen concedes as phrases circle in defense.
Yet from these tangled vines within her mind blend elegances true and whole.
She frowns to concede such winsomeness and in her haste she vanishes.
Until the timer rings,
And the chase spills in,
She’ll wraps herself in words now penned,
Engulfed in harmony of the dreamer’s awakening.

By L.K. Latham

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