Orange Peeled Unto Cold

What's the point

In being annointed

A master 

Among disjointed

Word crafters,

Feather headed bird bathers,

And the severed heads of absurd cadavers?

I search the words for that perfect head hatter

Inside, who only says exactly what matters

When I grow old, overweight, lonely, poor, with clothes that tatter

Walking around with a lumpy throat collecting a mind a scatter

I'd rather not blather

I'd rather just know that what I have held I can hold

Without the need to move more than a wrinkled coats fold

To feel you peeled orange warm unto my magenta blue cold.

The End

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