The Flowers in their Baskets
The flowers in their baskets
do not smell of crisp books
or rhymes that sing of flowers of freedom.
Pale as pulp of their wiped out eyes
these are stones of destiny
heavy from watery weight of their juvenile dreams
sharp and brash
as the stones of bleeding mule paths
tearing a wound with
face of a stifled cry
in murky skies of their fast fading infancy.
(Source : Drunkenboat.com)