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Little Eric
Born of Stitches,
Little puppy
Formed of patches.
Your coat,
Lethargic dusty grey
And tattered faded white,
Your coal black eye still shiny
Like a window into night.
And where has the other gone?
Long lost down some unfaithful road.
A small pink tongue
Like a defiant flag,
Taunting, sneering
Yet unmoving,
Stitched in silence
The perfect silence
To keep my secrets,
To keep her secrets.
Sheltering you within her arms
Though small,
Two unfailing bands of iron.
You return unshaken loyalty
Firm protection of a guardian.
Smells like me, or rather her,
Of sweat and tears
Even spit,
Your leather ears long chewed upon
To ragged dissymmetry.
Little Eric
Born of Stitches,
Little puppy
Formed of patches.
I was empty
Yet I formed you,
You filled the space
between my thoughts.
You and the children of my memory,
Children of my pen
My brush.
Yes You are MINE
My little Eric.
Cloth and heart
Soul and stitch.
 Swift Crow · Mon Mar 07, 2005 @ 07:17pm · 3 Comments |
