I was that strawberry.
I grew that sweetly
long drawn sip you took,
and hurried down your
throat,
sure not to share.

I was that wine you
hid from all.
Tasting only when
you knew no one was there,
to slake the thirst
you could not bear
alone.

I was no pasture for your eyes,
I was no sweetly held surprise
to hold and share to prove
your worth before the crowd.
I was no utterance aloud.

I was that bench you marred
and scarred with chains,
hard wrought from teeth
and tears
and sores
and knitted years of ice.
I was your vice.

I was no picture filled with words.
I was no iron magnetized
to pull the cover from your lies,
or bring the heat and slide
from deep inside.
I was not softly held aside.

I was that thirsting in the dark.
I was that thrusting pulling mass
of dirt to smear your face,
and fill the grave,
and drive the headstone in its place.
I was your hateful driven grace.

I was that rusty,
long drawn knife you
left to rain and wet,
and sucked the blade
to get the blood before
your eyes again.
I was your sin.

02/09/1997

Posted on 04/22/2005
Copyright © 2025 Timothy Somers