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A pedagogy of numbers...
Has there been a lapse of years. I will tell thee how many.
Was I merely cherishing a moment of respite on the ceiling. Oh, may I consent to swear to hath thee not discard me truth.
'Tis the same concrete - grey and black with pebbles and crusts of cement.
Were mym ankles bare and feet too. They touched the rugged surface, right by the skin of my toes.
Tiny nails on the fingers, tiny even in sight - were they all accompanying the action.
Alas! oh the owner of my reverence! Oh saviour of mine in numbers with hands that sought the path of vein under my skin! Alack! hit me a wind, kissing the much was that divested of a cover.
There, how harsh the lips! Might I even prefer a lie, aiding an acceptance of what was.
There, were two scars etched right on my thighs as unfolded the lips the teeth on the flesh.
There! oh God! there I saw. Hark. Oh thou ruffian, must thee hark this excerpt.
Alas! grisly, grisly! Hark what beheld I as stooped I my head under the desk.
Thy fingers all gory and yet whining 'moreish' as they sank right there.
Was it no kiss of tenderness, let alone a soft touch. I perceived a colossal catastrophe in my mind for were thy hands not there in another blink.
Hits me a zephyr, quite delicate unlike the erstwhile that drifted past me.
'Tis something. But let me have thy say. I fancy that now.
Dare thee not deny a speech for did my apparel never turn thee down, did they?
Dare you not fabricate! Oh don't you. Thou see, art thou wise in pedagogy, and am I in learning. Tell me, did I attain the sum? Two and two is four I knew. Tell me if need I be told 'bravo' or marked in red on my thighs again.
Compendious were thee more than kind to squander thy time on teaching two lessons to one.
But on thy face I say "No encore!"
But on the visage, I scream " NO ENCORE! "
Alas oh my finder! Demand thee the more.
Oh holy Lord, how come scrounge I for Thy providence? Is the Canvas wearing thin. He will rip out every ruche from the hem of my Holy carpet. Where shall I pray? Shall I not be saved?
Seek I Thy salvation from hands that disguise protection while reaching for what I refuse to give. Hear me my Lord. Under this escritoire, I am alone.
So my pedagogue, the father of flowers - daisies and groundsels you say.
How do you hold them, by their stalk or the petals - the instigator of my admiration for this life? How exactly, with these fingers thou press unto me?
Hath your right held the tank and the left roiled my core so naive, while lips were they yours that uttered "oh my Sons and daughters".
Must thee be a devil disguising my God.
What is this math? Can I not solve it!
What number that adds on and knows no halt as finds it some room on my fingers?
They art not mine. Not mine I declare.
They art yours and yours to always be.
So touch me not I avow.
Touch me not I say.
Touch me not I say!
Oh Holy Almighty, may I see the way, or am I blinded by cowardice from my skull to ankle, lest I understand his math.
© All Rights Reserved
Was I merely cherishing a moment of respite on the ceiling. Oh, may I consent to swear to hath thee not discard me truth.
'Tis the same concrete - grey and black with pebbles and crusts of cement.
Were mym ankles bare and feet too. They touched the rugged surface, right by the skin of my toes.
Tiny nails on the fingers, tiny even in sight - were they all accompanying the action.
Alas! oh the owner of my reverence! Oh saviour of mine in numbers with hands that sought the path of vein under my skin! Alack! hit me a wind, kissing the much was that divested of a cover.
There, how harsh the lips! Might I even prefer a lie, aiding an acceptance of what was.
There, were two scars etched right on my thighs as unfolded the lips the teeth on the flesh.
There! oh God! there I saw. Hark. Oh thou ruffian, must thee hark this excerpt.
Alas! grisly, grisly! Hark what beheld I as stooped I my head under the desk.
Thy fingers all gory and yet whining 'moreish' as they sank right there.
Was it no kiss of tenderness, let alone a soft touch. I perceived a colossal catastrophe in my mind for were thy hands not there in another blink.
Hits me a zephyr, quite delicate unlike the erstwhile that drifted past me.
'Tis something. But let me have thy say. I fancy that now.
Dare thee not deny a speech for did my apparel never turn thee down, did they?
Dare you not fabricate! Oh don't you. Thou see, art thou wise in pedagogy, and am I in learning. Tell me, did I attain the sum? Two and two is four I knew. Tell me if need I be told 'bravo' or marked in red on my thighs again.
Compendious were thee more than kind to squander thy time on teaching two lessons to one.
But on thy face I say "No encore!"
But on the visage, I scream " NO ENCORE! "
Alas oh my finder! Demand thee the more.
Oh holy Lord, how come scrounge I for Thy providence? Is the Canvas wearing thin. He will rip out every ruche from the hem of my Holy carpet. Where shall I pray? Shall I not be saved?
Seek I Thy salvation from hands that disguise protection while reaching for what I refuse to give. Hear me my Lord. Under this escritoire, I am alone.
So my pedagogue, the father of flowers - daisies and groundsels you say.
How do you hold them, by their stalk or the petals - the instigator of my admiration for this life? How exactly, with these fingers thou press unto me?
Hath your right held the tank and the left roiled my core so naive, while lips were they yours that uttered "oh my Sons and daughters".
Must thee be a devil disguising my God.
What is this math? Can I not solve it!
What number that adds on and knows no halt as finds it some room on my fingers?
They art not mine. Not mine I declare.
They art yours and yours to always be.
So touch me not I avow.
Touch me not I say.
Touch me not I say!
Oh Holy Almighty, may I see the way, or am I blinded by cowardice from my skull to ankle, lest I understand his math.
© All Rights Reserved
