Call Me Cautious (Pot to Kettle) -4/23/05

The eyes of litter-runts who’ve oft been kicked
Take on a certain quality, I’ve seen
When, long before they’re dead, they start to keen:
Their soul becomes the wounds they’ve often licked.

This pack of wild dogs is often known
For biting their own kin, I must admit
That I myself have felt the fangs that bit:
The teeth that eat the heart but leave the bone.

You say that you are diff’rent though, and I
Can see that litter-runt inside your stare,
The stare that, cautious, on the ground does stay.
“Don’t hurt me, break me, please don’t make me cry”:
The prayer of our two twinnéd hearts laid bare,
And maybe good things come to those who pray.