Because all experiences are valuable.

Sunday, May 3, 2015


Smash the pots, then stomp the flowers- a dozen
tired and tawdry hours, in tens of lots,
all mine,
all ours.

Drink it eat it, grow in size, one man's
detritus burdens flies, a fly's conceit
over man's demise.

Death may be blue, in uniform- or maybe
not, this roiling storm, obscures what's true,
or truth,
in any form.

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