I've been used,

insidious trolls who make no mistakes about

their tyranny, the ***** toads cozy up to my

childlike glamor, and feast there.

Oh how to dowse the blazed flames of human

fruit?

The pulp of a blushed rose is a thorn that never

cleaves.

So I stand still, spilled in swill,

keeping secrets about my ****.

I am an extract, feeling quite in lieu, borrowed

and blue, messed about in the sheets of a lovers

quarrel.


copyright 2020