Her Immortal Sweetness

Her words were rootless, they were buttercups churning in a cyclic wind; sweet if you like sweet, but never deep enough nor strong enough to be hurtful or loving, Her poems came with the bland smile of a sociopath. Naturally folks considered her an angel, one sent to us by ever-loving poetry gods. Dead now for many years she is read avidly by latter day acolytes; the tepid tapioca of her words turning many a fan doe-eyed and limp as if they had just been shot by an arrow straight from cupids ass.