Getting to hell away

It's not often I'd feel happy that I got a poem the way it was intended; I was pleased with this. It gets what I wanted: a mean spirited, finger to the ex-lover ( "you folded up small"), vengeful little poem. It doesn't refer to anyone in my life, I hasten to add.

   

 

 

PASSAGE.

 

We were lovers;

now I'm off,

you're packed away;

you folded up small.

 

So with curving spine

and arms belting knees

tight under chin, I roll on;

a wheel from the accident.

 

Ahead there is space,

to wander in,

to kick up dust;

space where fires won't burn.