My Fetch has more fun than I do.
The candle of vision remains dim.
They tell me to see pink mist,
And all I see is the inside of my eyelids.

Snaky vines straighten her spine,
And hers becomes a broomstick,
And hers uncurls impossible.
Mine remains in its slouch towards Bethlehem.

But even as my ego whines,
My Fetch is off doing great things.
She has tea with Goddesses,
And trips fantastic to the end of time.

My pen is the vehicle of Her speaking.
Avidly, I watch to see what is written.
My Ego wants to own this work in pride,
But He simply has not been there.

I hug my Fetch when She returns,
But we do not seem to come as one.
She goes out for Her night on the town,
And I simply wait beside the phone.