One
Every time I do, I’m glad I did.
Every time I don’t, with myself I’m livid.
Perhaps someday my gladness I’ll learn
To follow instead of letting my stomach churn.
Two
One winter night
On her memory a blight:
Seized as I stood;
The result would not be good.
Pulled from a fall,
I turned to see gall:
Certain it was my choice,
To sorrow her feet gave voice.
Three
Over the edge he leans,
The river’s eyes gleam.
He tries to let it run through,
To bid its warm touch welcome,
But fears what he’d become
If nothing grew.
Copyright © 2013 H.K. Longmore
Musings of a Kunderian Monster 