Little Wind Up ~

Little Wind Up ~

A Poem by Foxemerald

Little Wind-Up ~

I'm interested in you-

But, you never answer my texts,

And yet, I simply wanted to know . . .

Why it was so difficult,

For me to be,

Your thing . . .

Did I have mediocre talent?

Or was I just . . .

Too plain?

Did you ever think that I-

Perhaps, had more than song,

Within the soft folds-

And ridges of my sheik sweater-

Hugging upon the ridges of my,

Rising breast-

When I breathed inward?

And that perhaps, you could feel more . . .

Than just my heart's simple beat?

Squished up in my seat this way-

I think . . .

I have faith that,

Extends beyond the matrix,

Of these sandwiched bodies, hot-

And sweaty as they,

Might chance to be, on the NYC,

Subway system.

Predictably so . . .

I sleep . . .

There is no love in my heart.

I am feeling cold.

It's a fathomless, black, empty setting for me within the . . .

Surrounded by the multiple waves of sound-

Voices, that resound,

Bats in a cavern with cantankerous wings,

Rusted and weary, as they . . .

Were once wind up things,

Now forgotten in their dreary state,

Of existence-

A condition which they,

Might have predicted if they,

Has been able to think in,

A broad extent . . .

But now they are, simply,

Things, which fly over,

This cavern's length,

Whistling their tuneless sigh,

A pointless, dreary din-

Echoes of hearts, and love, and feelings which once,

Made 'some sense' . . .

And now, they are simply toys,

With strings and corks that wind around-

And make them zoom around this . . .

Cavern's wide circumference-

They are like the Disney cavern bats,

These silly minds,

That don't really understand the way,

I work,

And think . . .

Or anything about the human soul, consisting-

They are simply toys . . .

Toys that squash me,

Into this tiny seat,

From all sides-

From which my mind bursts forth expands, exuding-

Love and beauty,

'Tangible things' . . .

From somewhere deep-

Deep, deep down, in the center of that chamber,

Where still resides,

A being.

I have not forgotten this,

That, from which you always flee, I think,

From me . . .

When I hold onto that mindless rabble -

It frightens you to think,

That I am more than just a bat with wings-

Going in some random area.

I cannot see . . .

Just why.

I couldn't have been just your 'thing' . . .

Because I am so much more than-

Your little wind up.


© 2017 Foxemerald

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Added on February 15, 2017
Last Updated on February 15, 2017
Tags: romance; prose poetry




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