Petes Poetry
Fire of flowers
So petal, so bud, the air we breathe.
So bee, so butterfly sitting on a leaf.
I rose so high, with dreams of porn.
And the gift of love, left me bleeding in thorns.
The truth buried so deep, yet squashed and splattered.
Mr smoothie, with flowers that flattered.
The tall poppy, cut to the stubble.
Too high, to say hi, that was the trouble.
And the carnation milked, turned to curd.
For the true flower he loved, blackened and burnt.
The herbal essence, that beauty, love, the sweetness to devour.
The rise and fall, to lay in his final hours.
For high and mighty, the city of love, the Eiffel tower.
For a man of colours, with attitude bitter and sour.
So skin of silk, fire in the soul, grow on him like some awesome power.
For weak at heart, shallow, hollow, this man's words died in a fire of flowers.
Peter Riddoch.
So bee, so butterfly sitting on a leaf.
I rose so high, with dreams of porn.
And the gift of love, left me bleeding in thorns.
The truth buried so deep, yet squashed and splattered.
Mr smoothie, with flowers that flattered.
The tall poppy, cut to the stubble.
Too high, to say hi, that was the trouble.
And the carnation milked, turned to curd.
For the true flower he loved, blackened and burnt.
The herbal essence, that beauty, love, the sweetness to devour.
The rise and fall, to lay in his final hours.
For high and mighty, the city of love, the Eiffel tower.
For a man of colours, with attitude bitter and sour.
So skin of silk, fire in the soul, grow on him like some awesome power.
For weak at heart, shallow, hollow, this man's words died in a fire of flowers.
Peter Riddoch.
