Washed Glass

Shuttered light on a fixed gaze

Dims the switch on your malaise

People ask you all the time:

Doing hand jobs for a rhyme?

What’s it take to bittersweet

Your life away from a Tweet?

Or are you the libby sort

Only tuck squeeze for fine port?

So let the Priest wash your glass

Tip him with a kiss of sass

Saddle up to your altar

Rococo glass will palter

Reflect back your fairy wish

And whatever else you dish

Your Mithras a unicorn

A bull chastened by your horn

And the gods of yesteryears

Now pretty laced dimpled queers

Your soul squeezed to the narrow

Snugged fit inside your marrow

Nothing but a pretty face

Snow white skin perfumed with lace

And a balm of your soured chaste

Dipped on the top of toothpaste

For you’ll need a helping hand

Yours is a soul with a brand

And a petticoat to match

A charmed life without a catch

Till the night falls on your show

Snuffs out the last afterglow

Leaves you in a blackened room

Betrothed to your own worst groom

Published by Michael Sean Erickson

I write, act, and produce films in Los Angeles. Everything else is conjecture.

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