i am where the luck runs out of lucky.
tarnished yarns of harmony.... harming things.
like an earworm in a blind spot.
with your heart disarmed.

i am delayed by a Winter
underneath my skin.
that only your marmalade can burn.
as i surrender to the victory
of my sank Armada… i foist
my dark hilarities
upon the spike of a spoon?
how many gnomes must die
before my lawn is merely
Hideous?

how many ways can i stop
asking that?