A poem #70 – Good riddance

She falls to the floor
like someone has rubbed the dust from her wings.
I’d bend low again to help her up,
but I’m too far past caring.
Looking up forlornly
to see if any notice has been taken,
but in full rooms of jaded men,
she is truly mistaken.
Picking herself up
and feigning ascension,
but all just in vain
attempts for attention.
Go, find simple men with simple needs.
Good riddance you wretched, slithering weed – good riddance indeed.

JP Collins

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