Metamea

The ice is melting. A snowman with cherry flavored lips With the heat of an arid sugar kiss, It’s melting, I say It’s melting. Sitting in the summer sun Along a desert road of abomination, A dessert of slopping slush. We’re melting, I say We’re melting. The torso becomes soft The head, it falls off Spilling into the river bed, Turning the water a deep dark red.

 It was 8:30. When the clock had said four, her mother noted the listlessness in her eyes. She reluctantly permitted her daughter to stay, and left her for an appointed dinner party. That was hours ago. At 8:30, her daughter remained propped on the couch, prim as a push pin, endeavoring for the answers that must’ve lay just beneath the awning of the cushions. The answers, she was told, would give her everything she might want of life and more. So there she sat, wrestling with counter judgements, grappling antlers of suspicion, striking aside desires of rest that encumbered the path of concentration. Every turn she made, she was skimming

Can I     Have the love To bite Whose hands have Fed, Hands that Have Steadied Of those that Have led? Might I Redeem a piece Of the Peace that has Bled, Every time That they've plucked 'She loves me' And sewn Kisses on My head? May I mother Oh mother, please? Appease a Life worth the Dread, A truth As though Wed, Or a song Sung in Stead? Then might I have love The love For who long has Said, Learn to Love thyself Whole, before Thou are Dead.