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Samantha Mclaughlin Poem
On Saturday the fifth, I will meet my bride.
By side of alter, and then decide.
If I should flee, or marry thee.
You may think me cruel, or ungentle of man.
But she’s the type, to toll a man.
By cost and affect, because she can.
By Sunday sixth, she will be Mrs or amiss.
But me a Mister, regardless of this.
Her name in tarnish, but mine varnished still.
As a gentleman untamed, unmarried and with will.
It will be my choice, whether we rejoice.
Or my plan, that I leave her in abandon.
On Friday fourth, I get a jolt.
A letter brought forth, has me revolt.
Miss will not see you on Saturday.
She’s decided against, the matrimony.
How dare she, I gasp!
To leave such a man, not at the alter
But by, the pen of hand.
Copyright © Samantha McLaughlin | Year Posted 2024
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Details |
Samantha Mclaughlin Poem
Turning my orange days grey, that’s what you do.
Flicking my sun over to a moon, like in a child’s picture.
And you make it cold. I need a blanket made of foil.
like the stuff you’d wear around your head.
Because you must be signalling other planets.
Because you can’t handle things.
You take my sun, stars and whole galaxy.
Because you need love so you engulf my all.
While I’m sitting here in a kitchen of still life.
In a fruit bowl, in a glass bowl. My orange greyed with you by my side.
Copyright © Samantha McLaughlin | Year Posted 2024
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