bare pickt the flower of its head

bare-pickt..the flowers
of its head.
++++++++++++++++

Loves or Loves
not?

Bare-pickt,..the
flower of it's
head;

all roses smell
like rot.

( and
Laughter is The
Weeping of Hearts
Grown Dead.)

+

Today/Yesterday/
Tomorrow?

when was it?

That Life became
a Pit of Sorrow,

and I
drowned
in The Angels'
Bullshit?

hell...

Perhaps it was
Always Dark!

(and
Broken Glass,
The Diamond of
It's Heart.)

jsh