It needs care, love.
Not neglect.
But neglect is the only mortar on site,
the only grout I can apply,
here.
I have symptoms,
do you have my cure?
I’ll pay.
I don’t mind.
I need my peace.
A piece of my mind.
Please don’t say it’s untrue to believe
that I can walk through this fire,
that I don’t have to turn on the spit,
cooking.
I have just these four pennies.
Enough to cross the river
with my love.
Forgive my intrusion.
Will you take what I can pay?
Please stand aside.
Just let me pass on
with my love, please.
I can not go astern.
I wish not to quarrel any longer.
I must keep on.
For my love.
While the divided and the multitude
rush to repair the conch:
shattered and fragmented.
I make my move with my love,
but am caught.
Held from going further.
What do you have to lament,
with all those pennies in your pocket, paid?
Can you not just let us have passage?
It is of no toil to you.
No words response.
Just a shaking head
and misery stare.
But I will find a way,
my love.
I will find us out of here,
away from the neglect,
somehow.
Wait while I try to find another way,
my love.
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