Constanza

One told of form, re: format
	as hurricane season to the weather network.
Embroidered once on the doormat
	pixels, now, once needlework.

And gone Constanza, gone,

	to be tortured

	to be mangled

I met a farmer on the veracious way;
	as a fallen tree, he asked a question,
I didn't know what to say.
	I beat my brow and tore my hair in exhaustion.

For gone was Constanza, gone,

	to be tortured

	to be mangled

She or I, he and she, pity the pronoun,
	as the pony without any owner
forced up the stream, then down
	whose hunger will drown her.

Far gone was Constanza, gone,

	to be tortured

	to be mangled

© Jason Abdelhadi