Wednesday, November 21, 2012

Some metaphysical s-craps.


Leaving morsels
by the wayside
for the starving little puppy,
'Pepper' ; as was his hunger
As his tiny tail stroked
Majestic pictures onto the cold
easel of the winter night
I walked back,
Wondering
How my red bra would look like
To a hungry root of a dying tree
Reaching out as if to mother
To me, six feet under.
Would I bloom on a bough weeks later?
Or would it be just a momentary '' bow ''?
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