In Stupor and Frown

By Netta Granit

Thine eyes sit High
Looking nigh
Like round glass balls
On Chide cheek bones

Mine, hands stare down,
Like thorn in thy Crown
In stupor and frown
Brinked to the ground

A groan: dismal and miniscule rose
From their scarlet little mouths
In a beautiful prose
To redeem you and I
From our worthless try
To bring back the sweet and fragrant rose.

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Filed under Issue 1, Poetry

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