Wasting Flowers

Scentless as a withered bower

counting seasons,

wasting flowers.

committed to be unaware,


without a care.

to speak of frantic,

feigned attractions-

ignoring charming, 

wistful banter.

bleeding on your crippled roots,

lament of martyrs:

  “ill repute”

these gnarled insults

you have proved

have scarred your victims,

  and the brute.

Confused by effortless derision,

Enamored by these dark suspicions;

Alone I rip you from the earth,

A rotting seed…

   for what it’s worth.


Author: moonmaenad

Unskilled Navigator of this ocean we call life..somebody throw me a lifejacket STAT…or a clever and friendly dolphin

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