deep and dark~ poetry

The Missing Oar

I can't care for you anymore,
for you have sawed me in half and left me sore.
So now I am poor,
and stuck in this life only wishing for more.
But nothing shall come, for I am
constantly watching the door
while letting this man attempt to pour
me back together.
But with one gentle shake, I am left
falling and crashing onto the floor.

But careful, sir! You don't wish to step on what
is left of my poor body.
For you are valuable, a great chunk of ore,
just waiting to be shaped into the missing ore
to her canoe.

For you must lead her back to shore
and sir, while you think this is just a tour,
you are finally leading her ashore
where she belongs.

And once you do, sir, she will be left unsure
of what to say,
for you are just what she has been stuck in this
life wishing for.
You, the missing oar to her canoe, have finally
walked through the door.