You don`t read
In between my reticent shoulders.
Tho`words do not possess
That plantlike transparent skill
To pacify,
They reveal layers.
Always a jot of truth left behind
And seasoned irony at hand
For the awkward process
Of asserting the real aim
Down the gnarled throat.
It can be that I say,
But to be measured and heard,
In childish anticipation,
Unable to discard your image
And untangle mine.
With cold hands and
Effervescent heart, I,
Miserly, strive to outgrow
My, sympathetic,
“Forever mine only”,
Sadness.
