Women are not made of stone;
They melt too easily.
They are made of wax.
Use their scent as it often detracts
From the deformed soul of the statue queen.
They pray for remolding;
Men pray for a dream.
And amidst all this prayer
I’m caught in-between
The scene.
A righteously immoral race to climb through the bars of the dungeon,
Speeding, needing, until it feels safe,
A finish line waiting—no shifts, no return.
A candle, it brightens without its first burn.
Behoove me, please. Behoove me and
Remove me.
I cannot take this scene.