And I would have come to you,
perfectly weighted like a flower upon its stem.
Pointed in every angled perfection
climbing up those narrow stairs.
Arranging my opiate cravings upon your pillow soft.
Nothing vocal would I request so therefore
nothing to reply.
Look down bright moon she whispers
See how alone I am – in this, his
No morning tea no buttered toast
the cut of a lemon
the death of my Eden
a bracelet of his fickle hair
He all vital so very man
Ladies you fortunate ones – he does what he does
because he can.
Shame in spades that I, lost my moments
My desperate want to
share his – DNA
Now just one less page
numbered, in my biography…
Poppy Jan 2013