Submission

Words are good servants

and bad masters

Like me, sitting there, on your wired, wicked chair

above the green, green grass

Yet I am human after all

Not a brick castle with magical bridges that cross my waters for me

In a cloud, you are

that yellow brick house overlooking forever

But your windows are mirrors

and vice versa

Lofty dreams

A park floater…

the type your Grandma looks at all funny

As if she hasn’t been down that high way

The see-through walls of your exteriors

aren’t that high and mighty

You’re just my horse

and I’m just a hair-clipped girl

looking into the rippling waters of our cubed expectations

Re-tracing winding roads we are no stranger to

Yet every time, it appears to be the path less beaten

Boy you are the bush, not the tree

But your branches get me every time