Sparkatale

My Sign

A neon sign should advertise,

Whose light would snare each pair of eyes

That wandered near the reddish glow,

So all who’d see it then would know

And nevermore advance a query

Or ponder on upon a theory

On why my gait should seem so weary,

Shoulders hunched, and aura dreary,

Cursed to carry burdens cruel

Beneath a sheet of dirty wool

While icy bites buffet my skin,

So they could see and know within

The mind that’d lie there underneath

Is one no one would dare unsheathe,

Lest they’d receive in nagging force

The source-less world of filters coarse

Where every strand of joy is cut,

Each door to satisfaction shut,

By he whom this world shelters from

Again becoming fully numb

By Disappointment’s silver needle,

While I would sway as fly and beetle’d

See me as their equal, there

Above my head: “inferior.”