Another Thing

I write things,
things that
lean against dark doorways to sigh through nights,
or glint like the armoured gallantry of knights,
that are splintered like the crutch of a beggar, forlorn,
or wretchedly torn like a baby, stillborn.

I write things,
things that
play in my arms like a charming lover,
or slacken like a smile that finds no other,
that start whispering when the witness goes,
that loll grotesquely, misshapen as toes.

I write things,
things that
grasp for the tail of a morning dream,
or sit demurely, brushed and clean,
that waltz lazily away, laughing, unnamed,
that scream out of fear of the silence being blamed.

I write things,
things that
I hate, that I hate
to love,
that lie in wait,
or lie.

I write things,
things that
are all the same things.