It's not the wings that scare me. It's the air.
The elements don't love me anymore.
The atoms raise their eyebrows and they stare.
It's technically permissible, but poor

In social graces. Protons must be asked,
And neutrons should be courted patiently.
Electrons might come first, or both, or last
But you should see them as they wish to be,

As individuals. It's not a shock
That they don't cotton kindly to abuse.
The carpet wicks them slowly to the sock,
The naked doorknob sets the buggers loose

In one bright flash and puts you in your place.
There's magic here. Respect it. Touch the face.

Tags: monday fourteen, poetry, sonnets