These days, you're always angry at me.
You weed the roses from your own soul to grow me brambles
And your graffiti eyes judge my moments, find them lacking.
You glare and blossom hard-edged words,
Like when I slipped from bed quietly to let you sleep
You hated the warmth I left behind me
And despised my return with flowers.
I stand here with your breakfast tray to feed your derision
And your judging fertilises your overnourished anger.
I told you who I was.
I never concealed the thorns in my kisses.
Where does your nice go?
Neville Hunt 6 months ago
This is beautiful, if disturbing, Drew. Love the final question. How savage the changes. (I believe that the ageing disease can sometimes prompt such changes.) A very thoughtful piece of work!
Drew Martyn 6 months ago
Thanks Neville - happily not from personal experience :)