The
apathy of the night’s sleep is inflated by the howls of the deep winter hounds.
They squall with loneliness knowing only God’s reflective light. For they, like
I are among the creator’s mishaps. Ignored as he dotes upon those made opulent
by his grace. So we roam unnoticed, and spurned until blame and punishment are
needed to unburden the beautiful.
Ignorant
are we to the fears we create in those so deeply loved. Their inclination to
leave us only the menial of tasks, then brushed aside as a flower of lint
clinging to her skirts. So we the lunatic fringe crawl along the dark and angry
thoroughfares desperate for even and neglected brass farthing, trodden
underfoot.
Left then with blistered hearts, spoiled and yellow
with age. God’s laughter at my pain familiar as a lover’s touch across my
thirsty ungentle skin, cold as a spinster left at the altar. Weeping copious
tears while the stingy gadfly turns dumb and paralyzed with love.
-Johnny V.
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