The Yield
Corridors of august black and translucent white
"This would make a good entry"
And never noting the irony
We sat at the table and examined the goods
Antique flowers, roses, and shells
Joined to perfection
Dozens of pieces to form a simple puzzle
"Shall we start the bidding?"
"A sealed bid? Why?"
"Let me examine the box"
The decision made, the object poised
Shaking, a force of wills
It falls, shattering
The box, the puzzle, the roses
Easily solved, but it must not be
A commotion
Silent accusation
"My clients hands were never on the item"
"What's this?" A lawyer, a seer... or worse
More accusations
"Why did you yield?"
"I did not yield"
Subtle, but true
"Try your magic on this"
"See if your Yield will work on this"
She comes as me with a knife, scissors
A duel, a psychic war
But still I yield
It's what I do
The blade comes down, slicing
And I awaken
It is a full five minutes
Before I realize
The yield, has worked--again
That Was The Last Poem
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