Unabated Rage

A poem 
borrowed from the roses 
sits today on my lips. 

Crowded with pricks 
at night, words move 
around the flickering flames. 

Thoughts. 
They fly like sparrows 
encircling the mind. 

The sky falls. Import 
of faceless assaults thickens. Red 
poppies bloom in wheat fields. 

White mushrooms, 
come up in summer to complain 
against the muted surrender of clouds.