So, one by one they drop away like flies
without a chink of respite in between.
They fall down lightly not from starlit skies
but through electric-lady shock machines.
Bemused, I dangle, arms outstretched and bare
while silken angels hover near my throne
to watch the sorry show and then compare
their axe-free observations with their own
delightful flyless sane and loving world
where lies and disingenuousness die
where women would not feel ashamed as girls
nor reticent to flirt and mystify.
If only I could change my universe
to one where friendship’s lure was not a curse.
© 2011, Alan Morrison