Prickles
Like prickles of icicles,
stinging sticks of poison pricks,
shown to me on pinkish peaks.
Rank results followed insults,
hard hits and bombarded bits
of scattered memory leaks.
It was in part a flow chart,
cheek and pride shown side by side
through years of unending weeks.
They clearly came bringing blame,
overwrought by woe they brought
inducing my sobbing shrieks.
Chilling chills of tiny trills,
thrown amok in muddy muck,
arose to strike with broad beaks.
I awoke from bad blue joke,
journey’s jog to boggling bog
and you stroking crimson cheeks.
Copyright © Linda Alice Fowler | Year Posted 2022
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