Ogre

Every morning I hear your voice
It bores into my head like a maggot
Slowly
And hates me with the loud indifference of its existence
Leaving round red rimmed weeping spaces
Where smooth skin grew
cigarette burn scars
And dreams like ice water baths
That make hearts ache in fury
and fall away
Each word red ink pen on white marble
That weeps for a finer hand
Not for the tuneless scrawl of the
Infant’s petulance
That rips at the cool silk glass silence
Of every morning

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