Whipping the injured beast to keep it working
against its own interest
so poignant; so sad.
A loving child’s gift — paper cut-out stars
to hang over your bed
but your dreams are not what
you had hoped for.
You made this child, and
now it is a burden,
unwashed, unkempt,
ignorant and yet so willing to please.
You loved this woman,
and now she is too familiar.
You no longer want her looking at you
knowingly, with concern.
You want a paper cut-out romance,
a Sunday comics page life,
something safe with no sharp edges.
You want an antiseptic procedure
to cut out your heart,
replace it with a
state of the art
platinum clock.
You want truth and honor and justice
high ideals and winning hands
wrapped carefully and tied in festive ribbons
so there is no mistake
you have earned this fortune through your sacrifice
of what was never yours
to give.

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