We’ve Come Undone. We’ve Come, and Done.

New poem. What a ridic. title, huh?

A flowering unit
a foursome of enigmatic minds
with tension you could cut with a knife
Airy, arrogant, and strained
weep virgin tear
from pressure, pained
truth, burning from the inside
kept veiled under the rubble
til he’s aged—they’ve aged
He spits roses
velvet and sincere
as they wash away black watercolor
the four shadows
of 20 some-odd years