Poem: Touched.

They say she’s touched.

She’s been touched by many men;

Her mind bends and extends in agony;

She’s forgotten who she’s longed to be.

 

The say she’s depressed, or obsessed;

For how could we not see that she is;

She’s been this way and it’s not hard to say;

I say touche, but there’s more to this lady.

 

She walks round at midnight holding a bouquet-

Of multicolored floral decorations to take up space;

They say her head is up there, in a space unreachable;

And I know she decorates the landscape with her fake flowers;

Ego strong and as tall as three Eiffel towers.

 

They say I am touched for loving her.

They say I am touched for other reasons as well;

Touche, I say, but still, is it my fault then?

I see the breaks and the bends and the floral ballet-

She dances.  And I know she longs to dance with me.

 

So I wait, and wait-the pain an unending nervousness;

Compelling me to break, down, down, down, we go, or I.

I know it was me at the center of the vase of her flowery dreams-

They may say nay and I touche, but I know deeply-

Nothing is as it seems.

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