twice I watched my number pass
felt the crumbles of the blast
siphoned, mirrored, filed away
sickening by this light of day
parachutes of older grace
pick me up, cradle my face
I’m dying by the light of mourn
repelling with the scent of scorn
a patient man has never seen
the light of me, the plight of me
so sit still while I peck into
my scorching hands, Beautiful Blue
words that letters really ought
not touch the pearls that teach you naught
have wrung my hands into a knot
and teach me what shouldn’t be taught
Copyright L.M. 2007.
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