Posted in Poetry

The Weed by L. M. Montes

In walked a woman who sat with the rest,
her clothes of silk and makeup smooth,
she had to look her best,
smile she did
and greetings pure,
who would have guessed that underneath
she seethed with vengeance sure.
The others were impressed
as they spoke with her aright,
and never did they see her
in any such different light,
it wasn’t till she dropped a word
with innocence so bright,
that shuttered and shook the others
against themselves with all their might.
Now, she was truly happy
with malice that brought delight
of having caused a killing ruckus
so scathing and impolite.


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