Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to grow...

erbacce-press

On the Edge of Human Horrors

Sometime the flowers will bloom
And not the tears that shed from
The sense of being.

Sometime existence won’t hurt like
Crucifixion or strappado but only the
Moss of stillbirths -

Perpetuating stale beauties.

Broken brown, crumbling halos,
Curling, introvert cradles
Of coy comforts

On the edge of human horrors.

We are misunderstood
In the face of nature
And of a magpie’s eye

During a diamond funeral.
Death is more attractive than sex.

Like a catwalk.
And a car crash.

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