Red Rose

Imaginary whites paint tactile floors,

Red roses in sin, the river pours,

Toting red petals like sands of shores,

Uncountable quantities of red scores.

The broken bodies of dried roses chip in rush,

The stench of sin, unholy musk,

I picked from stems of bushes unjust,

Poke and prod, stab and cut,

Stain the white consume by touch,

I kiss the blood, my open fingers,

I miss her love…my broken thinker.

I pick…because of her absence,

I pull…to honor my memories,

I poke…to actuate feeling,

I can see the red in the clear,

The happiness, the fear,

To my enemies,

The killing,

Of fragmented fixtures of lovely thought,

I use both hands to recreate a dying image,

Color coding with black and red,

Sort the well from dead,

I fight and fought,

A red rose in still water,

Under the shade tree outside the library in East Mecklenburg,

The clamor of wilding children to kill the quiet,

Innocent genesis mutate into perverse ends,

My guided hands, flapping jaws, illusive sins,

Stab the victim with saw-like knives and grin,

In dark brown eyes is where I chose to begin,

The rest of my life…

The rest of my wife,

Swept away in still waters,

Wading women wishing worse…

Of a growing marriage,

Screaming society in fragile ears,

They broke like glass into grounds to which I stepped,

I lost my balance and wept,

At the feet of my beloved,

At the feet of my beloved,

At the feet of my beloved,

She drove her nails across my bleeding back,

I grabbed her shins, I’m bleeding black,

By shards of women’s wicked words,

Going deaf to my cries, oh unheard,

…oh red rose in clear water,

Washed away by winds of them,

No sun’s gaze, no nature’s hymn,

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