There they sat, still in their clatter

silence in their defiance, they mock me:

"You are not our master, we are waiting for him to come home."

I whip them into motion with my bare hands

I poured hot insults onto their cool, smug surfaces

With frustration, I flung them

into the fiery furnace - burn, baby, burn

Who is your master now?

I dug deep into their core, till they throw up onto the counter

And I, exhausted, served them up on the

etched pretty platter.

I smiled.

Love,

Petal P. Rose