I pick a pocket just to feel
The stranger grope and softer steal.
When locks are legs and beds are bars,
I dream too deep with soiled stars
That twinkle-speak, “She rides again”.
“Your faithful foe and fearsome friend.”
I say “let danger lead me in,
And we'll pen and sword till Mighty ends.”
I drink the poison, she preps the pen
Followed by a graver sin.
She giggles at my broken nib,
As her tongue moves up and hands move in.
She strips my mind and dulls the ache
To hone and own what I create.
Blank pages are panicked blankets laid
To constrict and sever with no pay.
But beyond the empty, ashen shore,
My saviors stand: the kids of lore.
They dance so fast, they twirl and leap
And save my dormant mind from sleep.
While Lady Danger snips my laces,
I dream of centrifuge embraces
That separate my bad from good
And spin down grief, crushed underfoot.
When I pick pockets, friends fill my palms
With Lady Danger's whining psalms.
I crush the paper; it quenches me
And spurs a character release.
But soiled stars still twinkle-speak
And their brand of battle still repeats,
Dragging me into times of woe
Where I adore a periled throe.
But now I picture my friends, my kids,
Characters with built-in lids
From which I can no longer sup
And Lady Danger can't corrupt.
I defeat her now with inky graces
And perfect centrifuge embraces.