At The Last Poem by David McLansky
At The Last
How odd that all the feeling's gone,
The tender eyes of passion,
Replaced by strangeness, acts of form,
Words bitter, harshly rationed;
You needed to go to find yourself,
A hidden, someone other,
Bespoiling all your natural wealth,
Soul-merging with your mother;
And as she starved her little girl,
In turn you do starve me;
Neglecting those of your rich world,
Affirmed by poverty.
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5/8/2024 3:38:06 AM # 1.0.0.1119
