Under The Bridge

Her hidden interests, 

Lay beneath the bridge. 

Another man, 

A squalid pet, 

I don’t know what. 

But, when I meet her in the evening, 

I see her knees caked in mud, 

Her hands half-plastered, 

And her face a grim smirk, 

Made up of assimilitude. 

I see it lying, sleepy, 

Cared for and cradled, 

A basket of love in her eyes. 

I see the thing, 

And know its dimensions, 

So why do I falter, 

And hesitate upon the ledge, 

Looking in a translucent lens, 

At all that hides, creeping, inside. 

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