Savage Rose

T. Koppel-A. Koppel

The smell of a tiny garden rose
Runs out of every mouth in this pose
Shattering any kind of mystery paths
Of my eye's collecting mania

The inherited worlds from the gown
Out of the silver-lighted nouns
Of every new language in this room
Joking with my little things

Through the transparent smoke
Of a newborn flying moke
We look at all hidden thoughts
Behind the unfeeling touches of you