Crumpled Roses
dripping
from his
book of poems
bleeding red petals
from too many
crumpled roses
he thought he never
found his love
morning sun
stretches
through his window
pounds the face
of the Peloncillos
early birds
from
empty trees
reach out
while a parade of
sighs
knifes down the road
he tried not to
write her into
his stitched-up
Frankenstein
heart
poor baby
another
crumpled rose
bleeding
from his book of poems
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