She isn’t fair like the sun.
More under-handed than even-,
she’s already unbegun.
She won’t make like a tree.
She doesn’t break like a heart.
She’s never not been indulged –
she makes paint run in hung art.
She won’t get out of the way.
She has her own set of plans.
Mountains jump up in the sky,
she’s got a canyon on the run.
She doesn’t sweet like a peach.
She doesn’t brake for a curve.
Not easy on the world,
she fights its every turn.
She deserves less than what she has.
She doesn’t ever invest.
She doesn’t keep souvenirs, just a
flare gun on her desk –
she says it’s a bad way to go,
a smirk there, wry, on her lips.
Her satisfaction is all,
don’t be tempted by her kiss.
She doesn’t bother with things.
She doesn’t twinkle at all.
She doesn’t care where you’ve been, and
just forget eye-to-eye or heart-to-heart.
No comments:
Post a Comment