§ñ@Ķ€

limerick (ish)?

Not the eyes of a siren 

or the tail of a mermaid 

but the tongue and the fangs 

of a. 

Make 

like a pond in the winter; 

no gills, no feathers, no wings, no fur. 

Sinister, 

psychopath, 

sorrowful and cruel; 

Each day is sort of a duel, 

Sheep’s Clothing itches my skin.

Do what you must to tame the creature.

I sing with the sting of a slither, 

soothing till the sharpness of a bite. 

And in the middle of the night 

when I find myself 

shedding pieces of my scales 

I try to use glue or tape to stick them to my body, 

afraid. 

Contemplate  

the sound of my rod-shaped body  

falling from the top of the highest tree: 

the thud. 

A flower twisted in its bud,

I try to hold back the time and seasons and the change and the growth. 

An oath 

sprouts from the bottom of my throat, 

or more like a plea 

veiled in a suave drawl. 

Crawl, 

or bark 

or gallop

or chirp. 

Kindly usurp 

a nest or a burrow, 

anything to camouflage. 

Into the daylight I will charge

mane ablaze, 

soaring. 

Don’t mind the sun rising. 

Apocalyptic yearning.

The life behind me leaving. 

Deliberate,

desperate 

devotion �" set me free.