The pity pot

Standard

Passion:

or something akin to sunshine on the face of a flower.

 

All my flowers are weeds

sprayed with glyphosephate,

and whither shall they wither.

There is no relief.

Life in time

ticks into the past

why then does the soul fail

why do we fall.

There is no relief

No rescue

at all.

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Sail into the harbor of my soul; tell me your heart

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