Gord

2021-07-20 04:34 am

Oh, to forget,
Castle, all, 
buttered pears.
But what of man?
Was he even there?
Even one percent,
I wish I could share.

All art forms a certain length,
All on loan, and suddenly end,
A dozen eggs, A dozen days, 
No son, No in love again,
Arms too short to hug oneself.

I feel as if I double dealt,
You tell me what face I have,
Where I belong,
That you've already won;
Wet seasons among, many drugs,
I regret: I've already punched.
Call me a spade, 
But I do what I want,
And I won.