| Author | Message | ||
| M
Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3883 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Red Treezaa (T.E. Ballard) My blood blooms a flower. Petals curl to a soft brown. There is no more pain in this, no more expectation only the rhythm of growing old. In Kenya the rags are planted far from the village so that the carnivores which come in the night will not eat the children or tear at the walls. Here we wrap our blood in white packages, tight and small, almost as if it does not exist. We are pure yet there are days when I need men to fall to the side, cast their eyes to the ground. I desire to be buried in the hard crust of clay and to bloom red with the fire of petals. |
