sharp and sticky abound.
Potentially murderous voices shoot out
yet ricochet off the innocent assemblage
surrounded by love, like bubble wrap.
A deadly collection of letters,
bouncing back to their owners.
While the souls remain
cloaked in truth,
“Those words aren’t us.”
No need for bulletproof vests to repel them.
Let them decay on the street
the street cleaner will dispose of them
before morning light.
© Ali Grimshaw