Deadly Nightshade
shadow creatures,
crooked as the claws of roots,
curl over a withered bush.
fey in contort,
bleak pantomimes,
covert yet unearthed,
pleas from a buried heart
that defecated its hurt
through a ribcage.
no feel taste touch smell sound,
no sign language,
or windy semaphore,
these shadows that vine
the still of rose thorns,
so quiet and uncertain
in twisted composure.
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3/12 ... "twisted" replaces "twistical" ... "covert" replaces "surreptitious"
1/21/23 .... "twistical" replaces "meaningless"
The poems don't like you. And they don't like me. They use us to be heard.
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