Mushrooms, Splinters, and Thorns

A Tale Rewound

A Tale Rewound

Twisting the embolic knob
on an aged short-wave radio,
she listens with
bliss, brute and thorny,
loving her wounds
fed through old tunes.

A stone-carved image
she buried
-as if a corpse-
inside her charity plot,
covered with pansies
like explosives.

Now, fluent only in tears,
she's comfy with
tyrannical regret,
since it is the power
behind the throne
where the heart rules,
when common sense
isn't that common.