Monday, December 26, 2005

Phantom Sting

I don't care if I see you in the spring,
And if I see you on a summer's night
Don't be alarmed if I look for some light
To send you on your way. This gathering,
Where you've turned up like some obnoxious thing
From scary movies, hasn't turned out right.
Does this sound spiteful? Sorry. Yes, it's spite,
But I was trying for a phantom sting.

I hoped I could insult you monstrously
Without your noticing the venom there,
Perhaps a cruel remark about your hair,
Or something mean, spoken with childish glee:
Your rank existence is a mystery.
You've understood me? That's my cross to bear.

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