And wore them on their lips,
Which was brazen
And uncouth.
And they liked it.
They liked the way
Their razor-teeth flashed
With each sly smile.
Mortar hands are waiting for
New hearts to grind
With their pestle fingers.
This is my 10th poem for National Poetry Writing Month 2014. I didn't have anyone in particular in mind, but it wouldn't be difficult to come up with a list.
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