Tourniquet Poem by Eye Spy

Eye Spy

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Tourniquet

I shudder
At the thought.
No,
At the touch.
No,
At the thought of touch.
I shudder,
Sullen,
Solemn.
I shudder
At the foulness
Of the feeling
From just a thought.
Is it a memory?
Or a malady?
A prognostication
Postulated by
Pundits?
It matters not.
Still shuddering
At the thought
Of you.

Eye Spy

Saturday, December 2, 2023

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