FreeWrights Peer Review™

unfold of me and cry for the lonely boy,
the flower spent into the shredder
taking a shower and fully
clothed, awake yet visceral
as the dream which brought
him to this place.



i write this for the tears
you cannot witness through the
wall you cannot touch,
for the wretched sobbing
you pan out;



and fly away
like clouds
crushed
against the
sky.


. . .
I in poem, and inside a tired stomach
bruised
and wanting. more from these words,
that is what I expect
and pain for



that gross and muddled
or vaporized like a dove
I can be sure of both
my place and starting point,
as they crash into
each other;

like a baby and a second-hand pram.



a diffidence to irony is all the world
can hope to teach us,



I learn; the television is
on.