Friday, April 11, 2008

The Usual Pickings



The red, black, and gold roses litter the path to the fountain
Where a thousand silver apples water the blue sky.
Every soul that has clenched lungs of sour breath
Carry all three bundled and tucked beneath woeful smiles.

The Radiant One receives these tokens, a thorned hand...
Miracle of miracles! A silver rose emerges.
Come and taste of the apples, the red, black and gold gone.

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