Missing

it has been less than a day

and I miss my child already;

I miss the security,

I miss the control,

now there is no margin,

no haven

sitting safely

inside the passing storm,

as if it had a soul

all it’s own,

and it was mine,

a kind of religion,

an almost god,

lost forever to the ravages

of time and reality;

plastic pretenders

inflate the ego,

warm the soul,

bring comfort

in a make-believe world,

fight off the inevitable,

which arrives

right on schedule,

just as you knew

it always would,

but yet secretly hoped

wouldn’t;

hunger feeds the soul,

or so they say,

well at least you say,

as the thought

pops into your head

like a fresh new

piece of toast

(with butter);

I miss my plastic,

I miss my child,

I miss my soul,

I miss my life.

.

.