Leaf on a Pond
Spit on me, curse on me and swallow me whole,
For the breathe of a being matters not to me,
I am human: I take and I take,
I’ll spit, I’ll curse, and I’ll swallow you whole.
It is all nothing to me—
Yet it is what every molecule in my body yearns,
A getaway ticket to this ever-flowing river of blood,
A croak of a wallowing pink toad.
I divulge myself of a temporary solution,
I torture myself with a pain-stricken tongue pain,
I satisfy myself with the touch of my own hand,
I spoil myself of nothingness, clothed with illusion.
Such a victim-driven individual God had molded,
A sculpted piece of clay, worthy of love like any other,
For her rose colored glasses had turned murky brown,
A simple word and a touch of another might be enough to cure her.
Yet for this dear spiteful spirit of mine,
It is not as easy as making out words on nuggets alphabet,
Nor spouting phrases even cavemen of old age would surmise,
Only the clock— and only it— will make the sun set.
Staring at the sun umbrella my father bought,
No cloud of rain would ever wound me,
For this type of embrace is no other;
A sign of beauty after heavy nights.
A sobbing pink tadpole on a pond,
The change of weather skillfully drawn,
The clarity of this all often bemuses me,
The fireflies of courage truly amuse me.
