Crooked, brick teeth behind
a curled, silly smile
Brown, glazed irises swimming in
blood-shot eyes
Smoky hair, thick on top,
more wispy as it descends
but dense as a forest the hair
that hides your sycamore
when you're not using it
to haunt the young.
Betraying your lusts,
you mixed your sycamore
with a full-bloom pansy
and brought me to be--
The white skin and purple hues
of my mother
cannot hide that I am
of the monster.
Dare I, half-pansy, half-sycamonster
in my full bloom,
become pollinated by
the quaking aspen,
so we may risk bringing to be
another haunter of child's dreams,
or return to the earth,
never knowing who could be?