Barb Belle

I deadhead The Bloomed,

Tips trace and splinter; I am thorned,

And now prickled in adversity

To soft touch.

In darker hours,

I feel the shards anew

As my Third Eye kisses 

My shins. 

Once more, I am reminded

How naturally muliebrity flowers. 

Once more, I am inspired

To bleed the finger

Of any man who challenges

My either. 

I raise my arm as if to shield from light;

I am excited by my curled wisps

Of womanhood.

He shields himself (from my light).

He is repulsed. 

Vines wrap his arms in blueness,

Black slices of velvet

Fray alongside, intertwining 

And inviting me to climb them

As if I were a young inamorata 

Scaling the stalk to their 

Loveliness’s quarters.

Yet every inch I inch closer to climax,

I slip back, as he 

Bursts forwards.

In morning ray, my Zucchino swells in size

Overtaking the garden and 

Gently raping the lamblike florets

That lay beneath.

I sigh at their beauty,

And bestial.

The cucurbita, however, keeps clear

Of its One neighbour. 

The most beautiful bloom in all of the greenery;

Scented from angels

And pretty as impiety.

She, The Rose, remains dreamy and untouched;

Victim of repulsion due to her thorns. 

Victim of nothing, due to my thorns. 

By Lyric Deep.

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