While I stood in the sunny corner alone,
Staring through the skylight’s dome
At the clouds above the pine tree bristles,
The con man smirked at me and whistled.
I sew birds were busy sweetly chirping
Over pine needles sun-pierced fan.
The con man was shady and did his thing,
Dancing impatiently, his mental can-can.
I am a humble kind, but not easily tricked.
I erased the green of that conning freak,
The moment I succumbed to being licked
With corrupted, gross lips of uncanny conflict.
The Conflict
© Copyright: Гульнара Элрод Умарбекова, 2019
Свидетельство о публикации №219011901981
Свидетельство о публикации №219011901981
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