Grown legs

What of the old man's groan,
As it competes against a baby's shrill
I just want my legs to grow
Everything after is time to kill
Nobody speaks because nobody knows
Instead we sing like a pack of gulls
Hovering over the moon's face as it glows
I think we have fallen into a lull
Please stop. Desist. Sing no further.
I will not be an accomplice to your surmise.
For there exists no perfect herder
that we can see with our own eyes
So in night's din,  I do bemoan
How my long legs have failed to grow 

I love Roses

May I speak breathless thoughts into a microphone?
I hold my tongue with clothespins, some might say I'm tongue tied.
But I know that roses sprout from the pavement.
I hate roses, they're plain and unspectacular.
Instead I prefer rich white lilies. Everyone does.
From the stem to their petals shaped in a teacup.
I drink ambrosia from their form. Roses prick.
Still I was raised in a concrete jungle. No lilies in sight.
Roses don't lend themselves to consumption.
One must go thirsty when plucking a Rose.
In lieu is an aroma, cheap perfume to deafen the senses.
My Mom is a Rose. My Sister is a Rose. I am a Rose.
We all smell. We all prick. We all speak.
Though I still find myself panting, I feel free to love.