Rocked up
On sore heels,
Cement set to better
Them should they need to dig in,
But was not expecting the
Invective that slipped
From you before
Your fury.
Some fools
Choose tools of
Battle keener than my
Choice, as what words I shone
Slid off the backs of those
Abler of phrase, and its
Natural use, and
I felt futile.
A step away
From sturdy looks,
But not even capable of
Such discriminating function even
If my malingerers’ ligaments
Found themselves mettle
To set against the worst
Instance of me.
I tried to act
But stumbling blocks
Hopped across my path and
Saddled me with clincher’s disease;
Feet glued movement proving
Me more currish than I ever
Could have been giving
A turncoat’s kiss.
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