Touch

If Courage gave his blessing
Might an extending hand be seen
Gently, yet shakily
Floating towards your cheek
But curses upon that hand
Bleached bone as cold flesh
Wilted and burned away
You shall shriek in terror
At this hand, the Pumpkin King’s
For it would tear at your flesh
As it has what remains of its own
If Courage gave his blessing
Might an extending hand be seen
Gently, yet shakily
Floating toward my cheek
But ever more a curse
Upon my being
Your touch would feel of nothing
Your hand fallen
Crumbling like a clod of dirt
Void of any fertility
Fear and revolt
Denied of this please
Of touch
Curses and blessings
Pitiful creature

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