Scotched Flower.

The sun is high, high in the harmattan season The easterline wind withered the petals of love... I clasp my chest on the grip of blood-cough As is cosmic rumble upon the heart core Without a pull to the earth surface... Anguish and solitude my face thrilled- The rivelries are all gone, gone along with The hand straps across high hips, the intricate Smiles with freshened breath, and The beaming eyes searching another for meanings. Now the heart bleeds, bleeds unbridled- For the flower stood,pale and shrivelled Brown and unwanted, and like Hindsight at twilight-moment The truth stared glaringly at my face: The love of a stanger is nothing But a diamond in the rough.