White Blossom

White blossom seated in a wreath of gnarled fingers;
a prim lodestone harangued by the glaring moans which
in haunting waves run off from parched thirsty mouths.

Their predatory desire brewed from acrid pain skews
her lofty aspirations and turns her ringing laughter
to an idol of shame.

To wistful humility devoted, she withers and bloats
til all her unshed sweet tears are collected in a cuirass
glossed with the colours of her hawkish suitors:
burning ardour and the scorn of the immature.


Comments

Anonymous said…
Very bittersweet, but beautifully crafted words.
7 June 2013 at 20:05
Carol Moore said…
Beautiful wording that brings images to life in our minds!
27 June 2013 at 20:56
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