Lost, In The City

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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Beleaguered Servant

Owen Servant is an online poet working in a style that's been described as "compulsive". In real life, he is an actuary, because being a poet wasn't unpopular enough.

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