Chrysanthemum Tea

 

The windy road winds around the bridges that are spared immunity,

 

A flower in a clenched fist, and he misses her flair and beauty,

 

A remarkable pacing lauded on as the speed to keep,

 

The particle phase beam is caustic if freedom bleeds,

 

Unconvinced and utterly speechless yet scared to come back,

 

Whup-ass is lesser known than how many peanuts can fit in one can,

 

The man kneels, then breathes deeply with a frigid inhalation,

 

Day after day he comes, and each week he’s at a visit in summation.

 

 

 

 

Different views can see the same picture bleeds a thicker curd for primordial acclimation,

 

Just as the gravedigger sees no visitor but an incorporeal apparition,

 

Getting worked up like an animal or chicken in a coop that calls for a face,

 

The man holding his chrysanthemum trips on a boot and falls in the grave,

 

Lying there he is wondering if he’s man enough to plea for a money-assisted ledger,

 

Unto the darkness of the rest, the chrysanthemum tea turns the bloody liquid redder.

◄ Math vs. History

City of Stone in the Fire ►

Comments

No comments posted yet.

If you wish to post a comment you must login.

This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse, you are agreeing to our use of cookies.

Find out more Hide this message