My Friends Want Poetry
that sings of moonlight
scattered over peaceful shores,
that rhapsodizes the glory
of a summer stream
my friends want charming rhymes
about gardens resplendent
with the Hawthorn’s
rosy bloom of spring
about buttercups that droop
their sleepy heads
and spread their golden
tears upon the dewy lawn.
But I want poetry that stings,
that opens wide the chasms
of our sleeping souls
that guts our pithy little dreams
and lays bare the skulking,
shadowed lives we hide behind.
Aleigha Siron
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