Blame her, or save her.

There is something about being a man
That Poetry bleeds for, every month.

She ripped out that new-planted seed. 
And his nameless anguish landed there
And put on that coat.

 He laid blame
At her feet.  Her feet, where the
Flesh, from contact with earth. 
Feels so different than everything else.
Save her soul.

20170805. With real toads. 55 words.


19 thoughts on “Blame her, or save her.

  1. Startling! And thought-provoking. I think the soul of Poetry has eternal life … or at least, as long as humanity survives.


  2. Your exactitude in allotting specific words to the task of conveying the central idea is very impressive. This is an excellent 55 worder!


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