Mary Anne Marry

I think I might plan to sing.

Tunes, drawls, stories and all things sing-song.

My voice might be gruff,

unfeminine and crude.

But the joy isn't gone from me.

I am the very thing,

no butterfly,

but more like a soft moth delicate in the background of hues of green and pastels.

Let me be.

Great.

I might be large.

Larger than life.

A breath of fresh air,

or a terror that elicits screams from my surveyors.

I am a being of subjectivity.

I think you might think that one so precious as me,

ought to be alive longer than most.

Or dead, deader than dead for the deeds I hold no remorse.

That is fine.

All is fine.

For I am no pet of yours.

I am but a wild thing.

A primrose on fields of gold.

Like poppies that dance in the fields to be huffed and sold.

Take me apart, fed back to the masses.

Used on up until the machine finds new glasses, in which men of richer standing toast on my grave.

Happy I'm no longer a thorn in their endeavors.

No more brave.