Curls.

Curls,
You’re the snake that leaves tracks in the sand.
I can’t rake it clean, I can’t shake it clear,
But you’re here,
hunched over your beer –
and your cursive fork tongued language
has me picking at your words from verbal vending machines.

Curls,
intertwined in beating the capital,
not in vain.
Spaghetti fragments of curly brains just to stay sane.
Your intact riddance to the town crier on his soapbox of hypocrisy,
Unchaining daisies from uncharmed codes of practice,
Disarming scents from plague doctors errors.

You are to me, Curls.
A work of heart.



 © Thelma Von Salem @ https://thelmavonsalem.com

Image – Pinterest

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