The arms that hold her tend to want to trap her:
Perhaps misguided, understanding not
The gift that's more than presence, or the wrapper.
The city streams, in days and nights grown hot
And she seeks something somewhere someone else;
For what she needs is more than what she's got.
Like ice cream on the pavement that soon melts,
The hours dropped become the moments lost
And scrapes turn into boils, scars and welts.
Like traffic interchanges, hearts get crossed:
And soon, there is no satellite, no mapper
That could locate her, or her dreams, for cost.
What used to energize her, now will sap her;
For arms that cherish her, can only
Trap her
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Tagged: Tags Poetry Terza Rima
Published by Beleaguered Servant
Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.
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Nicely constructed!