Prima Donna Phlegm

Oh the portents for precarious panged performance

when winds whirl wild whips wickedly wounding

even if they blood is never spilled!

 

Because a shadow is a saber and fly is a demon

for the one with frail and gossamer lace a skin,

who was cursed with inordinate pain membranes

able to gracious abide in that languishing labyrinth

of such hideous cruelty from unkind gestures,

which inflicted such agony though touched with feathers.

 

It’s a malady of malaise measured mischievously

in the poignant and putrid power of prima donna phlegm,

an anxiety anchor aggravating aches and angst.

 

Alas we must bound the wounded butterfly

because those wings otherwise can’t soar,

course they are bent anyway

just like the one who owns them,

which probably is what helps

make every dribble, drool and drop

into an impassioned crusade

to silence the rumbles of injustice

that only appear in the mirror

behind the throne in that person’s head.