An Invitation

The invitations may not have been written in the language of the heart

Only your name spelt in cursive, and a paper crafted by the laboured effort

The scripted lines embellished with magnificent language to swoon over

When held in the hand and rolled slowly, they evoke a sense of illusion

Of being spoken about you from a distance about a blurry reflection

Embossed letters accentuate the refined way to lead you through this

Truthful language lost in the art of profligacy- an insincere eulogy

An invitation rolled out in such fashion loses its brilliance in no time


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