This image of a beautiful rose was captured by a new friend, Yvette.
Merci beaucoup Yvette, cette photo d’une fleur est absolument magnifique ……
You picked roses, cut their nursing
stems. Their cradled, vital blooms
slashed into slow death. That
crystal vase, a mausoleum, a glass
casket to watch them slowly fade
away, designed to wither and
decay for your enjoyment.
Their petals blacken and you smile.
And what of my heart? Can
your shears pierce it too,
prop me in a jar and watch my
essence drain away? Has the
foulness of your death breath
blown upon me? Do the remnants
of my rotting, sloughing
soul please you?
But roses will die anyway,
at season’s end you say.
What’s a month or two?
Or a decade given to the realm of beauty?
What beauty is that, dearest?
My crystal urn clouds the view,
this misty grey once called my life
grovels upon the shards of it.
I long for what once was,
the glory of that single moment in time
when I lived upon my stem.