these last eighteen months
i've watched your corpse grow.

you've become a willow,
a powerhouse,
with limbs hanging
over me like dark rain.

and you've swathed
me in contention,
kept me
underneath your tongue.

every night i
pray by the wayside,
wishing for horses and
pink overtures.

but you pulled my bow,
my strings, played me
a fiddle, and i was
off key.

(but when you broke my spine,
i crumbled into pieces,
for you to fix
if you find the time.)

01/09/2004

Author's Note: there i go with that purple haze of writer's block again. *grumbling.*

Posted on 01/09/2004
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