You think being with you has been a walk in the park?
Well certainly, if after dark without street lights,
with a serial narcissistic schizo after you,
while tiptoeing across shards of glass,
without soles on the bottom of your shoes,
which by the way are two sizes too small,
as it starts raining, red is worn, with an escaped bull on the loose.
I’m guessing someone else won’t mind, can tolerate walking that shady area of the park.
In the midst of crossfire,
by opposing gangs on each side,
as they stop in they’e tracks, beginning to yell as they gawk.
I survived the different scenarios, I used to stroll by the wooded crosswalk, in the darkest part of the park’s walk, into his unlucky abyss, a master of natural disaster’s, bliss.
Each time upon speaking ,
his need too be heard or right became so depleting.
Its quite intriguing how no one saw the danger,
until too late,
as a partially working light in the park is blinks showing two faces of a lunatic’s anger.
Yet he had to be all that was heard around, so I shuffled off quickly, before being shot down.
Poetry By Tamara Dorsey-Moore
Thinker on the Loose
Copyright © 2017