Wild things grow,
beneath the skin, the soil burns,
one can muster all the will,
and still be beaten brown and crumbly,
withered, dead, and drowned--
The potent smell of bad perfume.
Even from the ashes and mud,
of things of murk, slime, and shame,
can blossom bright--
New magic an- other- day.
YOU ARE READING
Please Don't Touch
PoetryPlease Don't Touch is my first self-published book of poetry, written and published originally in 2012. #51 in Poetry, 3 June, 2017 #85 in Poetry, 4 June, 2017 #108 in Poetry, 25 May, 2017 #136 in Poetry, 26 May, 2017 #149 in Poetry, 24 May, 2017 #1...
