Parched flower of the prairie,
wilting upon an orphaned passion
as an empty quiver appeals to
the reader. Idiotic. Pathetic.
Bamboozled by the birth
of an elementary bed-bath,
Tundra’s wealth hails cancer. Butchered
by the writer; inchoate and barren.
“Dear reader,” screams Ink,
down the wall of a vile cubicle.
“Don’t try to analyse my grace;
demote your liver to critic and drown.”