His wounds have long since healed.
Mine are still fresh, oozing
a jealousy that cannot be contained.

I want to climb into mother’s lap,
push him aside and take his place.

I would loop my arm around her swan neck,
nuzzle the stony flesh that bears
the mark of the master’s chisel.

If I were the praying sort,
I would ask for peace
or something else foolish.

Maybe I would ask for sleep.
Yes, I would pray, bring me blessed sleep.
Wrap me in a silken shroud
and sing me into marbled dreams.


Copyright © 2011 by Christopher Chaffin – All rights reserved


About cjchaffin

Wordsmithing is my passion. I eat, sleep, and breathe words and phrases, only to regurgitate them and pray that they are better off than when I first ingested them.
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