This gauntlet, laid at my feet
Will never rise.
I will look longingly at it,
And act as though I have no hands with which to lift the glove.
While all the time they hang limply,
Feebly pleading for use.
Recalling their old prowess with knife and pen alike,
They attain a sort of swagger in these secret dreams.
But all good things come to an end.
Especially when
You’re attached.
I, their master, crippled by mild intelligence,
just enough sentience,
has