Prickly Pete The Porcupine
In the forest’s gentle hush,
Underneath the twilight’s blush,
Lived a porcupine so brash,
With a heart turned to ash.
Prickly spines of solitude,
Guarding his quiet interlude,
Yearning for a tender touch,
Yet feared to hope for way too much.
“Come near,” he’d softly sigh,
To the creatures that were passing by,
But with every heartfelt plea,
They’d retreat behind the sycamore tree.
Love, he wished, not to be spurned,
But closeness, they had all learned,
Came with a price, way too steep,
For his spines were far too deep.
In moonlit whispers, he’d confide,
To the stars that gently spied,
“I wish to love, be loved in turn,
For that touch, I deeply yearn.”
Yet, in his solitary plight,
A lesson gleamed in the night,
Love’s not just a touch you feel,
But a bond that time will seal.
So, he cherished the moon’s embrace,
And the wind’s soft, fleeting grace,
Knowing love’s a distant dream,
For a porcupine, it would seem.
Seems as if the older I get, the more I can identify with the porcupine.
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