Golden Poem by Crystal Rosser

What becomes of a moony mind?
Entombed, in a hardened case —
Warmth kept from light —
Spoiling in a jar —

You, the coarse cat hairs on my sofa
And my love is the point of a thorn —
No mortal touch is immune —
I feel sick.

Where's my cup of tea?
Like blood runs through me
And I run through my blood —
Like a savage with a broken crutch —

I crawl into a pernicious pool —
Of afflicting recollections —
Bound by a wire that shakes —

Like a heartbeat
Heard between breaks —
And below the rippling water —
I see my golden wasteland.