Poetry

Emma stood on the balcony with a serene smile on her slightly wrinkled face. The man beside her handed her a cup of warm coffee.

"Thanks, Emma. If not for you, I would have been dead by now." Fiasca stood beside Emma as both reminisced.

"Don't thank me, Fiasca. You are a good man. That's why God helped you." Emma shook her head slightly.

"You always have your way with words." Fiasca laughed out loud.

"I am a businesswoman, after all." Emma shrugged her shoulder's as if it was nothing.

"Yeah, the iron lady." Fiasca grumbled in disdain.

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Short poetry for my lovely readers:

It is an ancient Mariner,

And he stoppeth one of three.

'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,

Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?

The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide,

And I am next of kin;

The guests are met, the feast is set:

May'st hear the merry din.'

He holds him with his skinny hand,

'There was a ship,' quoth he.

'Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!'

Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

He holds h