The Perverted Flower

The Perverted Flower

Her feet ached in the winter chill,

suds seeped deep beneath her white wrinkles,

each bubble felt like an evil explosion.

The headless woman ebbed in the cold pond, in her clasping arms

“My perverse flower...” a perverse poem scrawled on that naked corpse

A samurai grunted as he massaged himself frantically beside the fence

His eyes were once familiar. The boys she grew up with have all changed.

They only follow their master now, only to watch His possessions, in that pond.

Her lost gaze fixed on the wilting head, sprayed of love.

And breathed a thankful prayer that God did not care

to make her beautiful to anyone.