One- I am trying to breathe. I do not offer myself. Everything flows over, within this, my mouth. Two, three- The surge reveals a child. A symphony of barbs pierce my rest. What is asked of me will not be of the next. Four, five- Anyone that can hear me, I will tell you something, anything to make it cease. Earnest plea at death’s gate. Six, seven- Toss me in safety’s grave, that is now my wish of you, my mind’s slayer, liberty’s perpetual destroyer. Eight, nine- I’ll gladly give up my use, the substance of my collection, feet elevated inside iron shoes, angels slithering to my side. Ten… © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman
(The Weaver's Song)