Mood Swing

November 2, 2009
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Tug, tug, like a rope,
Your metal fingers twist and shape,
My heart to them dilates.
To knobs turning,
Creaking cogs running,
“Stop, stop!” I shout.
My mind churning against this choice,
As oars going upriver, suddenly swept by

This choice with no claim upon me.
But there it is, so ugly and foul,
Blurted out with a contorted face.
A cutting comment here and there,
Disconnected from me.
This quick contusion upon my disposition
Taxing away my amicable virtues
And I aver my veracity with shamefulness
Come again my smiling self,
No longer the unreasoned anger
Of lightening striking.

Or so the cycle goes.

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