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heart trouble


imagine a daisy moaning
petals pulled from center slow
like fiona’s honey all the better
to hurt you my dear dirty fingers
the culprits black caked beneath nails.

no one tells the flower
it’s ok when she is plucked
from the earth. no one consoles her or
tries to right the wrongs of man and
his hands that cannot keep to themselves.

the sun sees and prays
over broken body, drains away
her color and puts it in the clouds at dawn,
dries out her tissue so that her blood
can be a song against the windows of those who watched.

This entry was posted in: poetry

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