Featured art print by Pierre-Alain D

Saturday, August 20, 2022

This poem, meaningless.

Like lent, drifts bent.

…it’ll get to you,

Cough cough,

Like the flu.

Or bitter chew—

A sour fruit,

Of no juice.

But it leaks,

To its roots,

Flowing through,

Dirt of you.

From a tree,

Branching leaves,

To a truce,

That once grew.

But today…

Abandons you.

-Budd

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