The Sower

The Sower

“Take my hand.”

The demand startles me from my daydream.

I look around,

but I’m all alone.

The curse of an overactive imagination,

I guess.


“Take My Hand.”

It isn’t possible.

I look up slowly,

and sure enough,

He’s staring right at me.

The Statue.


“TAKE My Hand.”


The fucking statue is talking to me.

Commanding me, really.

I’m definitely awake.

I’m as sane as I ever was.



Jesus, just shut up already.

I open my lips to tell him off.

The only reasonable response

to a pushy statue,

Is to push back.



I can’t help but notice

how lovingly

the artist chiseled

His pecs, his abs, his hips, his legs,

His beautiful face.



Before I know what’s happening,

I reach out my hand,

Grasp his hard, perfect fingers in mine

Fire sweeps through my limbs,

Radiating out from my center.

Accidentally, I’ve found ecstasy.


This is pain.

The fire turns to metal,

My limbs harden,

Radiating out from my center.

Desire can be a real bastard.

Now what?


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