It was a figure of speech,
A tired fragment, a worn whimsy,
So worn I nearly dared not use it.
Please pardon, the rock thrown
Reached to bruise your skin, flimsy
And thin, but I still saw it fit.
I had run fresh out of blossoms,
Drained dry of honest pursuit,
Thought not for the safe or wholesome,
Or substitution with caring or cute.
If I could take it back I would not,
I've even less use for it than you,
So please allow it to rest where it landed.
We can ignore the stain, the lump, the blot,
But to discuss it any further would hardly do.
Forgiveness is welcomed, I'd detest to be branded
A crude deliverer of unpleasantry,
A rude misuser of levity,
A dutiful and respectful man I try to be,
How fruitful be my efforts we shall only see.
© Celeste Plowden 2010