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Time passes because you don’t know the art--
the dark makes all hands numb,
empty as speech, mute as a mustard seed.
© Karen Morris, Poet / Collaborating Author • 2017
Rage : The Misery of Men | Hope: The Dawning of Men
![Hornbeck by John Tomlinson 2015](https://static.wixstatic.com/media/c938c5_7011e35ffb724d18b0f9e0bbe1cd1872~mv2.jpg/v1/fill/w_147,h_187,al_c,q_80,usm_0.66_1.00_0.01,enc_auto/Hornbeck%20by%20John%20Tomlinson%20%202015.jpg)
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Hornbeck - To My Disappointment
I know I see you, Hornbeck- you never leave the corner where you glare - yet, clear as day I heard
the creak of boards. Where are your hands, Hornbeck? You stifle them in allspice-scented linings - in pockets
filled with coffin-balls and nutmeg shavings. Stil - I am unreal to you, even as I entertain your weaknesses,
Hornbeck- the ordinary pleasures of the naked dead. Who is your Mister there (Not shy, we’re understood)?
Hornbeck, it is, I answer - without his fawning Missus, minus their tiresome brood. Your charm, Hornbeck, is hoary frost on air. Unintelligible stains on crumpled paper - Tell me you care! Not a man, Hornbeck,
if you were a bird you would be a grosbeak - plain, puce, earth-bound, silent as a turd.
© 2020 Karen Morris Poet