The Poem shivers, not with cold but fear.
Don’t rough me up, says Poem,
I’m not one of your tough ones.
I don’t want lumps all over my surface,
cracks in my fine skin, patches
scraped raw, scars harsh to the touch.
I want, says Poem, some polish,
some delicacy, some finesse.
I need sensitive handling. Then
I shall reward you. You will feel
smoothness, easy passage to my heart;
softness, that can soothe your every pain.
From a Poetics prompt at dVerse