O reckless brother!
Seems its more magical to be
drooling in fairness of lies
than in several shades more modest
The tiny hands have grown
rooting for desires it cannot fathom
the greed you hate is your soul
it has eaten you up to blindness
only fishing groans of debt
you look at me, you see light
you look at you, what do you see?
Declaration of faint confusion
the world is bigger than you thought
the itching fever left you grey
turning you into a sack-less muse
mother would cry, for not the fat belly
but the trouble you have grown to be
do not clash your dying note
you’re too old to elope grief.
©2016. Ruth Brodrick.