The sly child works life over….
On the wrong day, you don’t wanna be in the ring.
The blows are at you, and about him.
The perspiration is evidence of an overheated mind.
He is perceived to be taking deliberate jabs
But he is paradoxically foolish,
two faced and fools even himself.
Upper cut, uppercut, jab…. prancing like an athlete
he is bogged down with un-harvested tears;
a levy waiting to break
a need as basic as his tears
and as acidic as his loathsome thoughts,
as commonplace as his morning eggs and toast.
Does the masochist avoid the mirror, toothbrush readied,
while he scours the flesh
from his gums?
Like an addict and his pills
there was never time for pain
only time for a reprieve from life;
the threat of pain.
Like a suicide bomber he ascribes
to his false hope like the fighter and the addict
but never fully deactivates the roots
Deadly nightshade is, after-all, edible?