I hear your truck pass and pisssshhhh;
exhaust billowing and I am
exhausted by the strain that
we decided to press and push and
we put one too many trick ponies up on the stage.
But I waited for your ghost and offered it a drink.
It smiled shallowly, offered that same contrive
conniptions and said I was still wrong.
I often find that those roses
we pick petals from prick the flesh of thorns,
but my crown was pressed all too deeply and I
miss you still.

07/22/2011

Author's Note: Meh!

Posted on 07/23/2011
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