Wednesday, February 18, 2015

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?

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