Once I was a spring chicken.
Through time you plucked
Each feather,
One by one
Loves me, loves me not.
I’ve been reduced
to a pile of down feathers;
strike me with your fist
over and over
beat me down;
it only makes me fluffier
And when you are through,
I will give your head
The comfort that breeds
Conscience steeped dreams, streams
of tar infused guilt
Rolled dry in my downy discipline.
And if you beg,
I will pluck you clean again.
Published in: on February 5, 2012 at 1:25 pm  Comments (2)  
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