There are princes and paupers,
poker-faced puppets too.
There are murderers with mercury hearts,
and mordant men, all waiting for you.
Love, my love, is as fine as they say.
All gossamer and filigree,
apples, sour, cast from the tree.
Nothing you have time for, these days.
This bread is so stale. See how it sits,
like a dead bird in your hand!
You cut your teeth and swallowed them,
white beads ground into sand.
© Deanna Scutt, 2017