Saturday, January 16, 2016

7689. OH, BIANCA

This meddlesome storm is truly bothering me,
and to no end do I stand here trying. I've hammered
a ship into forceful shape, raised a child, and captured
an ending. My fur-trapper looks are wearying to see.
I can only shrug and make sure, once again, that I
have my gloves. One friend I know of, he's got an
art-reception tonight in some cheap town bookshop,
and another is playing guitar in a Keyport coffee-shop.
I'd wish to be at both, yes, but never have the nerve to
leave my home. It's tough for me to even stand up.
Is there money in any of this work?
Oh. Bianca, it gets so sad. I don't have roaming eyes,
but I've got a roving heart, and a circular intention
to every emotion felt. Therefore, I announce, I love
you, I love you, I do. Can that make any real difference
now? Medieval mendicants used to roam from town
to town, crawl village walls, and seek the alms of 
strangers. My plight is much the same. I am helpless,
I have grown unquartered and alone. I cannot poach
the Kingsland deer, but I can roam. Yet won't.
There's nothing left to this slab of meat that once was me.
Nostrils flared, all I get are hairs instead of flames.

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