Saturday, July 29, 2017

Burnt Valentine

The rose of the world can see
I’m just cleaning my nose
To enjoy its company the more
Whose scent is the flower’s
Memories of Arles and Provence
Its youth in Damascus
Its long childhood in the fires
Of Lemuria its phantom body
Growing stronger on the roadsides
And the mountain passes of new worlds
And in the burnt woods of spring
Among the first to return
Its thorns protect it
And its scent calls it forth

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