Rose

Just as the temperate warmth of thou’est divine embrace,
With my stony moths that flick and float about the fear I face,
I’m left to wonder if the cool slips of dripping dreams,
Hold ‘gainst swirling darkness wither it is as black as it seems,
Who takes a chance on one small sliver of spirit piercing long enough to,
But a sudden smooth grinding stops fluid and feeling that falls further through,
A glisten and glint of gold flutters settling icy and cold,
Then the tongue tastes flesh, restrained but bold,
A fire and blast boasting hot air,
The fierce vibrating tangle of skin, breathe, and hair,
The cry, then a sigh, feeling the night as it goes,
A final glass whisper, the one I chose.
So lo, here I lie. But the truth now knows,
Yet I long for her lips, and to live in my rose.

winter-garden-8

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