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To my friends
who can write
fresh-smelling
bouquets of words
with splendid color,
I offer my envy.
Mine are the blunt, stunted words,
rooted in the cracks
in pavement,
or forcing their way
to light around
overbearing rocks.
Some useful
in their own way,
edible or flavorful,
some with a
pedestrian beauty,
but few that one
would bring home in a bunch
with a box of candy.
More appropriate
in a grimy, young fist
crumpled in love,
destined to be vased
in a water glass
by a doting mother,
or shredded petal by petal
for the sake of soothsaying...
he loves me, he loves me not.
The beauty of your words takes my breath away some days.  Thank you.
.
With this tarnished love I do
paint the world with darker hue,
and rise 'pon no light restraint
with shadow clouds for me to taint.

So ride black mood and flee away
torture me not for another day.
Begone! Be banished, leave no trace
release my heart to a better place.

Fate may bring wither she will
a new adventure, my love to thrill,
so permit this curtain call be seen
as my epitaph to a broken dream.


© Pagan Paul (2017)
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