quasi drunk
on these precious petals
plucked by trembling
finger tips of good faith
and half willing
only to appease
our inability to change
but they are in no measure
what mother needs
to keep her flesh
from bleeding out
and crying for us
her lost ones
who can only cling
to her withering skin
and our own false
hope
paulhp poetry 
Wow. That endo=ing!
LikeLike
*ending! Gosh haha I don’t know how I pulled out that typo!
LikeLike
Thanks so much, Nathan!
LikeLike