To the prune

Oh thou sickly sweet and mushy beastie
Some would say thou art so tasty
But as I eat ye I hope thou might
Do thy best to release my shite
And as I lay so late at night
I pray that soon I might
Find blessed release from being bound
And sweet satisfaction may be found

I fought Last Night

I fought last night
Begging Her to take me home
My pain reflected in Her eyes
She would not take my hand, yet

Like a knife biting deep
I writhed and called Her name
Known to me from long ago
When She offered Her hand

I lay there, contemplating
Why continue to fight?
Do I have it in me?
I look for Her hand