Pins

by Robert Gould

A pouch of pins haunts this home of mine.
He does not relent when they pierce the lining,
for light and dark in his head now entwine.

Like mistletoe suckles at the sycamore’s spine,
he’s pretty enough when he’s publically dining.
A pouch of pins haunts this home of mine.

Nobody cares that I’ve married a swine.
My love is a quarry he’s eternally mining,
for light and dark in his head now entwine.

With this house aflame, I know I’d be fine.
My distress bared to the world so that it is shining:
A pouch of pins haunts this home of mine.

To be rid of this man, I would cross every line.
But it is I whose strength is slowly declining,
for light and dark in his head now entwine.

He sits back with a glass of luxurious wine.
I feel pricks in my skin as I watch him reclining.
A pouch of pins haunts this home of mine,
for light and dark in his head now entwine.

3 thoughts on “Pins

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