A bush with two roses –

one grousing grouchy.

Grungy soul like the nineties sat on it.

Gray clouds seep slightly,

a spray paint making skin more clear

through coverings.

 

He cut me and I bled green

because I was young.

Because he removed a thorn,

I shook down to my roots.

 

With his pocket knife he smoothed me

from heel to head and I became a rose

the envy of every other rose.

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s