Tuesday, September 24, 2013

The Battle of the Flesh

A bitter fruit I pluck and cannot
swallow, two weeks of conscience ended
hollow


I carry a seed of love to grow and
last, murdered alas by swords of
lust


Spring was blossoming beneath my
heart, now carried on my sleeve like fall’s
art


I chose true love to wait like blissful
cheers, failed a thousand times with dry
tears



How will I face the flowers of my
soul, washed anew in pure scarlets of
gold


Shall I torture my weak thorns of
flesh, surrender I shall and put it to

rest

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