Proserpine

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81 words
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Tzara
Tzara
32 Followers

She fried her heart in the fireplace,
stirred the ashes with a stick,
wrote out her love for me with blackened tip:

A flower wilts above ground, so entomb me
with your seed in six feet of loam. I am a bulb
and will sprout next Spring,

then die again, of course. She lit another cigarette
and primped her dyed and perfect hair.
I didn't want her mouth,

only the pure burial
of my atheistic self
in unsanctified, wet earth.

Tzara
Tzara
32 Followers
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2 Comments
GuiltyPleasureGuiltyPleasureabout 15 years ago
That's my boy!

I always look forward to your poetic appearances and you don't disappoint this time.

Tess

bflagsstbflagsstabout 15 years ago
"then die again, of course."

is already included in the concept of the bulb and plant regeneration. Good poem regardless.

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