poem-thoughts

Tuesday, December 18, 2012

december eighteenth time

these fragile beautiful products
skipping toward the ground as sore
blossoms from the branch.

the ornate, impeccable

exclamation marks of their eyes.

to be famous is to be a husk
that is simmering full and never
ever quite done. it is to be tilted
into the mouths of intimate
strangers like honey.
Posted by ChristinaBeasley at 8:44 PM

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