Vice

On By PenAndPaperStoriesblogIn Poetry


Soft scratches alert 

To hear you 

That you are there 

Until you aren’t 

And I wait 

As any caged prey would do

For a return

Or consequence 

Of proportions beyond me

Or anything 

Even the moth runs from the flame

While perched on the door 

Waiting for eternity 

Or just the day.

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