The Cutting

I cut it
severed the stem
red in a dew
it pricked me as I kissed it
I wanted it
but crushed it there
'Frank,' it said softly as I laid it to rest
I pressed out the life
and the petals fell and bled
I loved that rose ,more than myself
in its sweet scented bed
but cold now
she whispered to others on her mind
torn between my gentle friend and a memory of her past
I honed my blade
this was to be the last
I held her petals upwards in my grasp
time passed slowly
and then I murdered her there ..with guilt
her lips pale on that velvet cheek
'help me', she softly spoke

'what of me now, no more will I speak'




An odour of goat
I entered with care
I conjured old thoughts of love and books
to die in this state she said, my dream
openly she told me of her lust
I smiled and looked down
the night was watching as I shuffled ,
wanting to do more
but a fear of repeat
at my feet, the ghost
I drank more and talked of dying
my mother, my father, friends
she left taking her coat, she was cold
I looked at the wall
alone again and getting old