Lust
Words will sour
in your lust
for power,
it is these
deeds
that come.
Prayer is lush,
it makes
one cower
but pure
is the cure
that scours.
I fend off
these baleful insults
which tumult
through my brave
innocence.
The flower
of the flesh
is stretched
into power.
I oft come
here
and smell
the daisies
by the lake,
where bones so
fresh
waste away
in your wake.
Copyright © Brian Bronson | Year Posted 2022
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