11 November 2009

Never To Rework

Parched flower of the prairie,
wilting upon an orphaned passion
as an empty quiver appeals to
the reader. Idiotic. Pathetic.

Bamboozled by the birth
of an elementary bed-bath,
Tundra's wealth hails cancer. Butchered
by the writer; inchoate and barren.

"Dear reader," screams Ink,
down the wall of a vile cubicle.
"Don't try to analyse my grace;
demote your liver to critic and drown."

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