by Ryan Nardi
Burning furry blossom,
are you born in boredom's service?
Bred and domesticated
and plucked in secret rooms?
Have you wrapped you fingers around them,
or are they wrapped around your finger?
Sing and take your last deep breaths
while the night still finds you solid,
for your immolation waits
in great glass baths
in the sordid morning.
Posted on 05/18/2009
Copyright © 2023 Ryan Nardi