High Noon Poem by DAVID GERARDINO

THE weasel wept, for the pseudo -monk,
the monk just prayed, and fell to the surface,
the weasel displayed a lunatick laugh, then
crushed a perfect rose, but only one...

dont blink, you tyrannous,
dont trust, or give your love
away, hide in your room like
a ghost, or monster, then
kick, scream, and fight, untill
you find a better way.

THE weasel stood with her body
parts hanging out, in her hand
the perfect rose, it might be
crushed and broken and dented,
but its hers, not yours , not mind,
but a ghost.