my turn

Nothing of profundity could come from me

Or anything that remotely resembles depth

Or poetry

Clearly, I can’t articulate the innermost emotions

Perspectives and passions of people

You wouldn’t expect me to describe

A winter forest and the boughs of skinny, snow-laden trees

That lean down toward ground with the slightest breeze

Like hypocrites afflicted with sickly cowardice as they fall on their knees

And cry on high through the snowy canopy

For something like help or salvation from hell

 

It’s okay for me

You expect that I’m expected to be

Less capable dissecting complexities

For which walking is definitely a necessity

In your mind

 

I refuse to be accomplice to extortion of pleasure

There are plenty of ways you can get her if she falls for that

Feigned compassion and a half-a*s stab at charity

Still there’s no disparity at twilight

Remember that, child