Grotesqueries of this kind
forgiving sort frequently bedevil
a sensitive nature of tender years
of any age, years can be tender;
sometimes we come roughly through
hard and splendorous, enamored of
our armor, only to find a sleek
patch has developed and in months
it's all sloughed off, leaving us
almost pink, gleaming, clung
by bits of down and fluff, expectant
of why - but no answer. 'Til
the kind, forgiving grotesquerie
arrives, to bedevil us and we find
yes, we are almost too tender now
to bare and bear its ministrations,
so sensitive have our natures
become, so frequently has
our resolve been
left undone.
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