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More than
The barren hag
Craved
The feel of sucking lips
On the nipples of her wilted,
Virgin breasts.
Wanting,
My nerves have rippled
Like the irked pond
Protesting
The forceful entry
Of Mr. Frog
Spearing its waters.
Have I not prayed
Even as sin
Dilutes my tottering faith;
But water and kerosene
Shall give the stove no flame,
Though the match
Be willing.
So here I stand,
Leftover
Of the feast of failure.
All I have left
Are salty pearls
Squeezed from the depths
Of wilted hope.
*A poem written in tears for me and those in a big fall.
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