Non-Sonnet Commissioning an Amber LocketBetsy Wheeler
Oval drop of wretched amber, I curse your sappy qualities. You’re so saving. So sassy in your slow decline down tree bark. Poor scorpion. Poor mite. You pour over their edges & keep. You scallywag the eight- legged. You bear repeating. Could you do me for? Could you syrup my heart in its current, only mildly-bruised state? Do a little save-for-later strung on silver for a future someone. Best it’s done before more damage comes. Ba-bum. Ba-bum. Preserved before the death of it could case the barely beating.
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