Page 67

Dd. SPUNGIN



Wildflower Frozen in the tundra times, my art suffers In spring it shrivels on the vine Seasonal death comes and repeats the axe murder It is nothing compared to the front page I cry over my own spilt milk Shameful tears cascade down and disappear every phrase I once thought worthy No more, this charade, I go to the pyre, hurl each worthless word A match, lit, tossed, will take the misery away A puff of smoke and all that burns is my memory O pain, wretched halfway poet, reading and choking on the words of others, like the weeds so envious of real flowers, as if they had been chastised to keep their place, heads hidden among the wild rush of color As if their stink could be masked by their beauty What beauty, I ask? What is my reality in this garden?

67

SPIRACLE JOURNAL Volume I Issue No. 1  

Re. In. Vent.

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