Big Man

Big man, I cannot move.
You have wanted my neck, 

this precious neck of mine, to have and to hold, 

to grip in hands cold, to take a bite, then mark as sold. 

Spite will keep my weak chin up despite you, man, 

up so high that I cannot see straight, even when my neck is as close to snapping as my synapses are. 

Even then I will splinter into your iron fist, into the collar you use to keep me on my knees, 

my man, because I am used to it, 

but you better watch out when I start to crawl. 

08/03/21