dolorous interludes.

Elegy.

The rose died.
Its petals closed upon themselves to
Gather warmth, but
Spring was too cold.

Although admired by many,
Roses know only too well the
Bluish veins beneath the red glass
Doors-

Choked and strangled,
A disease only patient and
Passionate gardeners treat;
caretakers sometimes succeed.

They say that the most beautiful of
Roses come
Singularly
As romantic gifts.

The most romantic of
Gifts then,
Fade
Like quicksand burying all

Beauty when
the hourglass tolls
The
Knell.

But even wilted roses appeal
To some-
Hardy, lasting and without care;
Forever they lie in their wooden vases,
Like cerise carcasses.

posted by voyeur @ 3/18/2005 10:25:00 PM