A lady child cry.
Poem about decision making.
Please don’t ask me to choose My Lord.
I’m not a lady but a child,
joint to my little ten fingers,
sucking out the colors, my stomach
filled with emptiness and deceit,
that the hands can be compared
to a true milk on my mother’s chest,
energy as you have ordained to my soul.
I am a selfish cat,
ready to purr from mercy
but still scratch with my fingers,
and show my teeth in threat.
You do know better than me, My Lord.
Decisions are best left to you,
your orchestration and grandiloquent
style, amazes me at the end result.
A liar I should be exposed,
if I deny the truth,
that you know best
I have old ugly patronage,
in skin of caramel… chocolate
dipping of greed,
I’m still longing for that,
not a bland meal!
Still your will be done, My Lord.
Hence the bland looking meal,
might be the sweetest cream
in my mouth.
