Dried Flower

He becomes fierce
under the constant glare
of his enemy.

He has been given
a bad name
and no advantages.

Highlighted is his bloodstream.
It sticks.
Everywhere he goes, it rapidly follows.

His misconstrued thoughts
make much sense.
His words make no sense at all.

He becomes a dried flower,
pressed between my yearbook pages.

 

Krissy Brady

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