the most beautiful roses are not red,
but palest of yellow with pink
streaks,

violets reside in a giant Etruscan urn
before our modest home, a
reminder to the modesty
and brilliance of color spotting in a sea
of immense waves of ski-ed blue and
verdant green, a visual, floral,
peak,

the violent virtual of the week,
wrecks a soft creamy despair across
the nation’s cheek, another slap at
the notion of our greatness residing
in our above all, unifying and
basic simplistic notions of kindness,
and the violets turn out insufficient
to gladden our hearts in a sea of
bleak,

and I turn my eyes to the great scapes
that surround my soul, absent
only snow capped mountains
but memory works, serves up,
what resides a mere thousand miles away,
so now my visual vistas completed,
and a tea of c a l m, aroma soothing,
massages my temple and rests my
blood pointy fingertip composers,
and I am somehow, someone who is
tweaked,

upon my heart in the real of solid
dark of fog and cloud that is my
true tempered reality,  where I am
wrecked and wreaked,
a havoc of pain relief cream,
soothing, relieving the anguish
that rests within and periodically
calming, thus alive to survive,
and yet remind:

a-salve to inject,
to still,
and yet,
permit stll,
a streak of

shrieks