"Trouble now. Trouble close ahead."
These words spoken deftly in the gloom,
I, not realizing they were of warning
hidden within a hug.
Three hundred or so dark days show its clear
you don't desire a man who cries
across his soaked fields or mudded wallows.
What about a boy that smiles?
Plays ball upon the sewn long-grass by firefly light.
Now paper child. Framed cute eyes stuck behind the lens,
uncrimped hair, drifting along with the wind.
French perfect.
I merely stand among the rotting flowers
stuffed gaily into another pine tar heel.
Meant to plant seeds of hopes or lover's fruits,
wandering now without a tears to nourish them.
Finding it ironic.
Forgot we dreamers can only bleed daffodils.
Professional fakers, always with an alibi,
seeking the next moonbeam to bend to encourage a grin.
Meant not to breed, or spread the disease.
No wonder itchy feet begin to walk.
I hope he/they/(it?) fits the stereotypes; sellers type.
I am, forever have been a man who whispers please.
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