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“Little Pointed Gifts”

I cherish each grievance, you know I do;
These little pointed gifts you like to give.
I lay them down, one by one, and relive
Again the punching stab, the slower skew:
I examine each dagger as if they were new.
Reflecting back the night, like moonlight’s shiv…
I could drop the matter–live and let live–
But instead, I tuck them in bed with you.

Go toss and turn on those jagged edges!
You robbed me of truth and gave me a lie
And thought me too stupid to even know
Nor note all of your aborted pledges.
You have nothing here that I wish to buy,
And I pack up all that I am, and go.

*Author’s Note: I thought I’d try my hand at an Italian (or Petrarchan) Sonnet and suddenly, this poem came to mind.  And I don’t know why, but for some reason, I picture Christopher Walken in a very fine Italian suit, holding up a few daggers, monologuing to his now dead ex-friend that he had been saving up every dagger he received by said friend, tucked it in bed for him so that it would all come stabbing him at once.  “Tsk-tsk!  You should have been a better liar. ”  Well, there’s goes my imagination again.  Guess I better go catch it….Bye for now!

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