Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania

(wherein our intrepid hero waxes angstical)

Petulant child
your life lived
in forever whine.

“It’s too thick
I don’t like that
you’ll have to wait –
It’s cold.”

I step away
you call me back
crying for my hand
do you imagine me your mother?
or perhaps some secret lover?

I might be flattered
if I thought
you capable
of love

but for all
my cooed sweet nothings
you give nothing
but complaint

I turn to leave
you scream once more
I find myself pulled back

I reach inside
your unbeating heart
and mend what’s gone astray
and for the fourth time this hour,
I unjam
your paper tray.

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Published in: on October 23, 2007 at 5:58 pm  Comments (1)  
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One CommentLeave a comment

  1. I [heart] this.


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