This short hair grew out of my neck one night
It was there and knew I could not fight
The wanting to pick it out of the mark.
It is very dark each time that it grows
Almost as if it knows what I enjoy
In order to employ my simple woes
Each time it grows, I quietly wait still
maybe to create a will to perform
that which I ask the norm to provide me
it is perhaps the dark hair which decides
me: Should I confide in time or reason?
for now is the season of desire
a lesion on my neck forms from picking
sticking to my plan has made me weary
this most unhopeful query for today
I say as I am passing without knowing
That all my daemons showing and staring
Glaring through a suspectful wound I made
And gave to this another sense, not pain.
Soon, I am very certain that this hair
Could be the curtain of my own despair
A name perhaps to travel soo far out
Yet a healthy path could not be paved grout
And if one night the hair does not grow dark
I will then search the light for other marks.
