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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.
Further Reading
So Sorry
But comments are currently disabled while I work out some bugs and explore the feasibility and wisdom of implementing the Intense Debate comment system. I apologize for being a buzzkill, but they'll be back up soon. You can always contact me if your about to burst with a classic riposte or feel a pressing need to reach me.

