Strange present.
Sat on my desk.
Don't really know what it does.
Or how it came to pass,
That this was the perfect choice,
For a friend to give me.
I don't get it.
The abstract shapes.
Sat there, starting at me.
As though I should read deeply,
Into the smooth black form,
Like a mistake from the clay room.
Cold to touch.
I run my fingers over.
Shiny surface curling round them.
Strange protrusions.
Why would you put them there?
Feeling lost in semantics.
Feeling guilt.
Creeping from behind my ears.
As the black, hollow form
Repulses me so very much.
Surely I've just missed the point?
Or even the smooth rounded end?
This poem was inspired by the intriguing photo prompt at Magpie Tales.
