Pregga’s Poetry: The Loneliest Flower

Forsooth, yon flower

Why dost thou sit so lonely upon the windowsill?


‘Twer uprooted, and yea,

A fellow did place thee,

For his filly,

Into a rustic pot, perchance vase,

To sit,

And molt,

Upon the carpet,

O, Yon Flower,

This fucking mess, you have made

How long have you sat there,

I do grow tired of watering,

Soon, I shall forget,

And wilt you will evermore,

Until your pot is emptied,

And used,

For pencils

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