WickedA Poem by A. Hannah
I arrive, weary, weak, wonderous
Daily work of a woman, it seems It's not over, never over... She sits in her spot, beneath the shine of the evening sun. A deep inhale, soft expulsion of my sanity. I smile into her glare, a calm resolute To the coming war. Her eyes like daggers enflaming every flaw. Of those things entombed within, That bite, scratch, and gnaw. And oh how my skin does crawl! Oh how I yearn for the day to dance upon her in celebration of a life well lived... Well over. I love her, in all her 90 ways I love her much more on her better days Yet my heart can be fooled When her monsterous drool Exudes from her voice As nails on a chalkboard Giving me no choice Her songs of songbirds Vultures to my fate You see, sweet little flower lady Seems tame, makes me to blame A crazed woman, who only has me to suffer the sins that she has carried. © 2017 A. HannahAuthor's Note
Reviews
|
Stats |