Nobody talks about the danger (except everybody, all the time) (a poem)

Back to an older poem to try to make something different out of it…

Two small curves
sloping down to a point
sharp enough
to fit any opening

The shape
in abstract
elevated to icon

The object of itself
cursed in its presence
mourned in its absence

sometimes
the green-eyed monster
in disguise

Mistaken for everything else
often both weapon and salve
a force to be reckoned with
frequently confused
misused, mistrusted

Sooner or later
we’re all busted

We don’t know
what to do with it
but it’s all we really want
isn’t it?

(1 November 2018—posted November 2nd)


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