11 October 2009

Words of Warning

To you who would be my friend:
The iron in me runs
beneath your pleases
a boiling garden of rust.
I may sing sweet petals
some but I am
no pink rose at the road stop.
I smell out the storm
under the rain and sit
lazy on my egg of bitter springs.
Can you worship my blackest dreams?
Sleep, scream, or go away!

PROMPT: Magnetic word tiles selected on the basis of what appealed to me that day. (I have LOTS!) However, this poem also classifies as a rant. Have people choose someone to "tell off."

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