My skin burns

with the tinge of passion

Green-lit by a system of nerves

But this moment is fleeting

and by the next

It has me by the neck

and I am dragged by the nape

to the ends of an abysmal room

Where I will stand and serve

where I will sit and loom

Should she have forgotten

to wire me capable of joy

and instead

A surplus of marked confusion and

utter dread

If I don’t have a handle on

the emotions I’d been spoon-fed

Then perhaps it’d be best

that I renounce my position

in the blanks of the margins

Where bliss grows like wheat

wilts slow

and weighs heavy as lead