I pressed my breast upon a thorn.
Touch isn't much, when flesh is torn.
With violets blue, and rubies sworn
to secret crowns they adorn,
with visions of a pure heart,
provisions to secure a start
made by a maid who wished to chart,
and bled with evidence, like art.
No line is straight enough for bends.
One tears first the lines he mends.
And puts the needle in his friend's
relentless heart,
that's how it ends.
And not like that high-flown child,
his story told by Oscar Wilde,
translating passions, groomed and styled,
sought after, caught, and crocodiled.
With veins so blue, and lips so red,
grows down this rose in his head.
That's what he said, with legs wide spread,
'There's not a flower
without a bed'
9 августа 2016 г.
Not a flower
© Copyright: Андрей Тюков, 2016
Свидетельство о публикации №116081000326
Свидетельство о публикации №116081000326
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