Throats

Throats
by S. R. Haynes

My throat flakes out,
And my mind melts like butter
That fries in the pan of the world.
I’m remade Cryptically,
In a peculiar shade of unharmonic blue.

This is me,
This is you,
This is the sun,
This is the song I sang last week,
Under a tree,
Where humidity slapped me,
Shook me, and tossed me down,
The flight of stairs of life.
Although I’m beaten and bruised,
All I can think of is,
“I want is pepperoni in my calzone.”

I’m just that weed.
Dainty, unsightly thing.
Growing, reaching, about to be mowed down.
Eviction isn’t pretty.
Don’t look,
Lest you see me cut down.
When my seed,
Flees on the wind,
And takes root once more,
We’ll play this vicious game once more.

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