I'm a button.
Plain. Inane.
The shirt, the frock,
silk or cotton
they call me a pain.

The thread of colors
Tempts me all right.
And then I'm held
in crisscross layers,
Helplessly uptight.

I make it a promise
to snip off and roll down
the clutches of the thread,
and make my way
into the refuge of
The supple fingertips
The dulcet touch
of your blessed hands,
without even frowning,
without a ping.
Even if it means
being stitched back again
into the piece of dull clothing,
a thousand times over.

Lying in your bed
are strands of her hair.

She knows. She let them there.

Come back home, to warmth, to roof.
Come back home, I'll take a hoof.

Dreams that I slept
in your lap, on your chest

Pyres that I leapt
over and over, at your behest

Crevices I crept
through, while you'd rest

Will heave weeps adept
when their sights arrest
the unnoticed attempts.
my bereft nest, your thriving theft.

A simmering start-
Unjust behaviour
Or a broken heart.
Angry transformation.
Vindictive ambition.
Infernal condition.
Anguish and trauma.
All incurred.
Trespassed precinct.
Animal Instinct.
The wounded hath
The curse of Wrath.

A bird in hand
And two in the bush.
No bar, no band
To where you push.
Selfish hoard-
An overload.
Brick by brick
The old trick.
Trespassed precinct.
Animal instinct.
Perpetual feed.
An oceanic greed.

Treacherous tongue.
Warning unrung.
Nothing will tire
This unquenched desire.
Consumed and yet not.
A battle little fought.
The huge, the puny-
Platter’s destiny.
Tresspassed precinct.
Animal Instinct.
Fire in the belly.
Encore. Gluttony.