full mouthed, like a rattle snake in masquerade
fatalities numbers gathering, in the course of
Can you swallow the sound of the truth?
Or are you absorbed in my words of respect.
I never aspired to wound you – think me not your
butcher-bird perched on high waiting to assail.
As for all who loiter in the realms of your retribution
let it stand, how roses black, dressed in shaded vale
did decompose as a child filled her time –
waiting to be your Daughter:
Whilst sanguine nasturtiums, did weaken to
recollections of distant grey – only to wake outside
the believing of my childhood, extracting nothing
beyond the liberty of my mind…
Poppy May 2014 ~xx~