Rugrat never liked it
When I reduced her to prosody,
The petulant child a reluctant subject
For my public, sullen verse,
The vehicle for her missing mountain,
Misty in the distance,
Obscured by cat-footed fog.
Hence why she messaged me,
Many moons on, several eons,
Practically, in young adult years,
The coalescence of feelings queer.
A bra rests aside a bong,
A teenaged prophecy, ever-long.