Your Old Bear
Every morning I see your face,
but the realization soon takes its place:
you've left me here, all alone,
in this cold, dead, broken home.
No longer do we play;
I'm here on this shelf to stay,
that is, until you come home,
but you never will come, will you?
I've long sat here for you,
all nice and still so as not to scare you,
but I suppose I'll keep waiting.
All the way up, up on my lonely shelf,
in this cold, dead, broken home,
where my throat was torn,
but never sewn.