I arrive, weary, weak, wonderous
Daily work of a woman, it seems
It's not over, never over...

She sits in her spot,
beneath the shine of the evening sun.
A deep inhale, soft expulsion of my sanity.

I smile into her glare, a calm resolute
To the coming war.
Her eyes like daggers enflaming every flaw.
Of those things entombed within,
That bite, scratch, and gnaw.

And oh how my skin does crawl!
Oh how I yearn for the day to dance upon her in celebration of a life well lived...
Well over.

I love her, in all her 90 ways
I love her much more on her better days

Yet my heart can be fooled
When her monsterous drool
Exudes from her voice
As nails on a chalkboard
Giving me no choice

Her songs of songbirds
Vultures to my fate

You see, sweet little flower lady
Seems tame, makes me to blame
A crazed woman, who only has me
to suffer the sins that she has carried.