May 17th, 2011
Underneath
And on this face I wear a dress,
and in the house I am all of a mess.
I’ll skimp past the cooker to set me on fire at best,
Happiness a forgery and un welcomed guest.
Feel the burns at the souls of the feet,
Feel it now as a tasty treat.
As flames scutter through wayward halls,
to the wisps of winter and to the wind it calls.
But all who are out not longer hear,
they swallow hard and disappear.
Another set of nails that scrape at the soil,
whoa betide all who plant in turmoil.