Fire sun flowers crumble.
The seed scatter light
pours black funeral pyre
and old shattered glass words.
This earth old pride
a million suffer bloodshed,
the man gentle burned brow,
scorn back spit that never was.
Here stand old rose choked,
it's thorn salt wound wears crown,
never so much bloodshed
to hurt not over a million years suffer.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Poem-A-Day: Day 445
Crown of Thorns
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Drop a line, a quip, a snippet, your pants, or an anecdote...just don't drop the soap.