Where is the consumer of the words unpenned?
Lurking elsewhere, its muted giggles
grotesquely mocking me
before crawling to some dark
and well-frequented balcony
over the stage of my sanity and sentiment...
The thing shivers, sneers, and points
to the boy in glass slippers
that are strong and warm for perfect feet
All of us would be better off with poor fathers
shrieking miserable curses
like the old codger
feeding the stray cats that spit at him.
The mind frames visions
of shattered windows along empty streets
where we killed the kind cats
and now their cousins are stray.
In a world of frail light,
we welcome the meat
without questioning
the work of the slaying hands.