My Muse the
Rose
Declared my prose verbose.
That pesky
Rose
Has rooted near my heart,
And probes
thorned fingers
To test at every part.
I must
confess
Such pain delights,
And so I
draw
That tender thorn
And call “Encore”,
Dear Rose,
au coeur…
Though I
must advise:
To reach
The inner chambers
Of this heart,
Such a
dainty prick
Will not suffice.
You must
find
A stronger,
Longer spike
To batter
Your way inside.
Manuela Cardiga
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