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Death of a Rose
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It is on my flesh that I write,
a meaning inspired by the dread I face.
Healing is a glimpse, sacrificial by the momentary spite, another dark alley wandered.
In another I inhabit and this is nothing
before the bill is paid.
Should you understand the pale rising
and sudden appearance; these are the
fragments of seclusion.
A black journal of empty candle light,
bombarded by the relentless emptiness.
With our fangs honed by the coming dawn,
take the brink of salvation in and spread
it into the mouths of mankind.
She gloats in the shadows, as I have
learned the secrets that were left as
distraction only.
Treadmarks are a quality unlike the light
ever burning, and the poised statue is
my response.
A carmel mind wrapped in the words I write.
She was in that hollow dream, but it
was my vision and not hers that I dreamt of.
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041022
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