You can put her in your own perfect box,
call her pretty, label her
You can crack her chest, shroud
with socially approved visions,
burn your own Revelations into her skull.
Do as you will with a worm, but if there’s a spine... “Run!”
- for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #25: Let’s Rewrite, where an intelligent, sexy, and unbelievably modest host invites us to take a poem or story we wrote many years ago (preferably, one that wasn’t exactly awesome), and rewrite it. I rewrote a piece first crafted in 2013, and posted it below.
Put her in a manmade box.
Call her pretty,
free of the filth that cloaks the unthinking.
Once her faith follows your fib,
wound a porthole into her wooden chest.
Let stagnation ooze into her eyeball
burn revelations into her skull.
Help her brain boil in the molasses of rotten hopes
of forever heavenly white clouds.
Always whisper of salvation, of the truth
that lies eternal,
or until a sheep cares not to be mouthless.
photo by hannah grace, on Unsplash