An aged and sour boyscout
grown above the fires
mallow and slow walking ladies
may hold my hand for a bit
until cackie becomes
creepy
and he denies my chimney
A paranoid boyscout
may never hold my hand
as his fingers
are wound
around the binds which
which leash him to a soft mallow
or survival.
And though survival is a factor
And while a soft and tender
badge of honor
Promises a soft and tender living
Survival is a factor
So i must refuse the hand
and lease my gaze to
the oblivious savage.
Hi Aida,Harriet told me about your blog. I like the honesty and the clear voice of your poems a lot. I'll put a link to TheSunSighedGod on my blog, NotintheNewsToday.com.
ReplyDeleteHope to see you over the holidays.
Pat