NOT ENAMOURED ENOUGH.

You’re an old drunk
Whose speech is getting younger
And whose features have encumbered
Your deportment.
A piece of meat
Who has marinated longer
And has elevated hunger
To an art form.

You’re a sleeping child
Who in more lucid moments
Has fought and bruised the omens
That confront us.
A closed door
That has never had to open
For the pleasure of the roaming
Souls who hunt us.

You’re a crumpled vest
Who’s been straightened to a rope
By frightened misanthropes
To ease their swaying.
A dead weight
Who has rarely let it show
Whilst being prepared to let us know
What has been weighing.