Untitled (i heard a song and thought of it)

It’s like your

Scissor-hands

(your scissor-hands)

have cut me

down to size

they hold me

at the throat

and bend

the notes

of every sigh

every bullet’s

bark

and trigger’s

spark

lurk like danger

in the dark

the saving

grace

of sparrow’s lace

feathering

the park.

I walk the path

Just out of sight

The bush around

The bend

And tirelessly

Await the next ambush

Set at

This journey’s end.

(c) jim hill (12-26-09)