For All the Daws To Peck At
Still angry. Still ready Othello.
Here's a poem to go with my other picture.
Then I shall wear my heart upon my sleeve
For all the daws, all the feathered fiends to feast
To peck at and tear me apart- but
Heaven is not my judge. Not I for love or duty.
They peck and they pull and they may pry
But they only feast upon a blackened a husk.
A hollow remainder of when I used to feel,
When I used to beat and smile and pulse.
But all the daws, all the feathered fiends that feast
Merely peck at the façade of my feelings.
I gave up heart long ago.