So now sway and tilt and droop,
I will not.
Lull, mum, quiet,
to the Be of things.
Twinkled eyes, prancing pain and panicked, pleasing.
But barefoot and bold,
Rhythms made foreign to an over-bending back.
Bent on pleasing,
Bent on appeasing.
Coddling? I must be stronger
Truant? Any? No longer.
beyond busted glass with bodaciously blue lips
Blemished with brawn as a bombshell buxom
Comatose till shock did I part
What was once dull is now silver
And decidedly so,
as a Be,
is so much bigger,
than a frowning spine and passive tongue;
by behemoth pain.
Released through hot and sweaty
legs and neck and fingers and veins.
to the key of believing past a running brain and scattered eyes.
So then I must.
To the Be of things.