muonA Poem by h d e rushin
I haven't been exactly truthful. The squirrels despise marigolds. Why else just cut off the heads with purpose to scatter in my yard? Could they be a sort of opiate that induces rest; quiets uneasiness? And I noticed, just this morning, your breasts sagging like i've never seen before, like a shirt pocket which made us both laugh. Thats when you told me that 'age makes the moon red' not the horizon. When we, holding hands, painted "Soul Brother" on our garage to save it from the flames in 68 and that feeling that nothing as good as this can die. At least not like my old Dell. No last faint breaths there. No final good words, yellow and waxy. Just no more, a blinking black cursor and a lifetime lost forever. Placed in a corner like a dying soldier being triage, hoping that the end of spring would come, sooner than later, so other lives could be attended to. And the morning glory, Convolvulaceae something trumpeted; something that is taught or anxiously stitched on the cloth of old trousers, or a flag to fly in the night sky. I think we might be getting too crazy for toothpaste kisses. © 2013 h d e rushinReviews
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Added on June 11, 2013Last Updated on June 11, 2013 Author
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