Little Eric Born of Stitches, Little puppy Formed of patches.
Your coat, Lethargic dusty grey And tattered faded white,
Your coal black eye still shiny Like a window into night. And where has the other gone? Long lost down some unfaithful road.
A small pink tongue Like a defiant flag, Taunting, sneering Yet unmoving, Stitched in silence The perfect silence To keep my secrets, To keep her secrets.
Sheltering you within her arms Though small, Two unfailing bands of iron. You return unshaken loyalty Firm protection of a guardian.
Smells like me, or rather her, Of sweat and tears Even spit, Your leather ears long chewed upon To ragged dissymmetry.
Little Eric Born of Stitches, Little puppy Formed of patches.
I was empty Yet I formed you, You filled the space between my thoughts.
You and the children of my memory, Children of my pen My brush.
Yes You are MINE My little Eric. Cloth and heart Soul and stitch.
Swift Crow · Mon Mar 07, 2005 @ 07:17pm · 3 Comments |