Monday, March 11, 2024

Subterranean

The florist around the corner
Made a new arrangement
They found him in the cooler
The bouquet rather fragrant

It laid there right beside his head
A single growing bloom
That was a sickly shade of red
And redolent of doom.

Some don’t share what hurts them
They simply choose to shoot
And endless nagging questions stem
From never knowing the root.

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