by Michael H. Brownstein
The simple lies so easy not to tell,
One hell of ice.
A Hall of Fame for those not nice,
The predator of life.
One cannot hold a flame bare in their hands,
But one can help blisters grow
And lick their bloody scabs raw.
I know.
On the table near the thumbs and eyes,
Fresh pressed buttons, six stenciled lies,
A brand new card, someone’s nose.
The truth is new, a crippled pose.
No comments:
Post a Comment