The Metaphorical Purgatory

’cause Campbell called it metaphory?
Watch your blustery effrontery
as you denounce it perfunctory.
I’ll think it still reclamatory
and hope that that expurgatory
is my last lot obligatory.
You can laugh, so derogatory,
at this supererogatory:
that I’m so sure it’s laudatory.
I get it. It’s all nugatory
so take me down objurgatory.
I’m free of your judicatory
no matter your frown predatory.
You’re purgatory mandatory.

Coping Out

She looked up
  through the arms of the bush
    that hid her tears.
The blue of that summer sky
  set all the leaves to darkest green
    but didn’t lighten the weight in her heart.
An ache carved out by betrayal
  reached claws out
    keeping breath short.
She lay back uncaring of
  the pokes and pulls of tiny branches
    or wood and stone under old leaves.
There was less pressure
  in the leaf quiet
    though it hurt more.
A movement to right
  attracted her pent up eyes
    and a squirrel took the stage.
For an hour, maybe more,
  the furry one flew back and forth
    doing nothing she could tell.
But, she reasoned, there must be something
  to all of it. Some purpose.
    Something unfathomable, hidden, that keeps it going.

An explosion of leaves the thing caused
  when Sophie stood of a sudden.
    She, scratched, walked off determined.