Your Roses

The roses you commissioned swam in the mud
staring at me blankly, whispering to me,
pick us up you fool, sing to us.
The pleasure of denouncing your hold on me
spilled onto my face as I trounced the roses.
Their murderous whispers reduced to inaudible gurgles
blocked by the crescendo of my blessed piety.

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Further Reading

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A. Moses Griffin (base64 image) Amos Moses Griffin
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