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.
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