no death comes to me

I wept a tear

for an unspoken promise,

its thorny stem dying

the rose may rest.

Scent once made

my senses heated

caused implosions

in my head.

Now chance for new life

to bloom is deleted.

I sniff at new roses

but ramifications of

the bouquet of death

linger in recollection,

robbing me of breath.

I sink in seas of memory.

I plunge my head deep

below the waters.

No death comes to me.

I read a verse.

I pierce my skin and in flows

a chemical flush.

No death comes to me.

I see a photograph.

I bathe a blade in flame

then sink it through my chest.

No death comes to me.

I make myself a flower

out of tinsel and paper-

I worship at its knees.

No death comes to me.

Instead the pseudo-rose

springs forth with greenery and poise,

begins to ripen in the sunlight

of a cracked window.

And I, lost in brooding

fall silently, sleeping upon

the freshly grown thorns

and resurrected blooms.

* * *

Often we do something that might seem silly at the time but somehow works in the long run. Trouble is, by the time that thing shows success we're often long gone.

So, there is a raging debate whenever this has popped up in readings as to whether the writer is finally found by death upon his moment of triumph or whether he simply is asleep, the creation of life from nothing having tired him out too much too see his creation shine.. Opinions?