Nails and thoughts want to fix you.
Birds and bees weep for your lost splendor.
Yours measly glory falls like withering leaves,
And it is the dust on my head that makes me
Pray for a storm.
Neither water nor my sweat can replenish you.
Your thorns are prominent: in time am pricked.
My puckered brow is a mangled tin,
As you hold onto me and I need liberation.
It seems like drops of my empathy is what you crave for,
But I doubt if they will bring back your sheen.
I am withering beneath you; and I plead we part.
I wore you in merry and now you are violently pernicious to my being.
A poem by Tonny Wandella