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 ►


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