Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Dead Flowers

I have acquainted loss with guilt, a beguiling jilt.
Somewhere, once, words were spoken
like lots of geese caught in some grease.
Without a moon, shade, or time;
evangelical hours would soon concern
the scout of thirds tripped into absurdity.
Analog doubly foraged the ice
subtly harkening, "Bring me back nine"
and then the night consumed before us,
our eyes teamed with maggots.
Disgust cheered the wolves of towers
leaving us ill in some dead flowers.

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