Thursday, April 14, 2016

Scorched earth

and after the hiss of the flame thrower 
the odor of burnt greens rises to my nostrils,
yes, me, the weedimator, the one who leans
over towering weeds, a delicate purple
purse casually thrown over my shoulder,
yes, I have destroyed this city of weeds,
they shrivel into black, never to rise again.
Scorched earth against a noble enemy.
their neighbors will rise in protest
and my torch will scald them to the 
earth, I will hear their shrieks echo 
against brick walls.

(wow, such violence, kind of scary!)

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