Rose

Rose
I scribble on the paper
A flower
Whose edges are sharp
Whose colour has eroded
Whose texture has turned into brown mulch
All but disappeared in the wind and rain
Immobile
No longer looking up
The proximity of bodies
Grows closer
The closeness to my head recedes
Lost in pockets and benches
Lost in me
Taken up by the potion
Drink me Drink me
Living well is the best revenge
I write it on the paper
Next to the flower
The rose
A scribble
The ink around its petals dry up like congealed blood
Wasted time like rings on the bottom of a tree which falls
Unheard
No way through the tunnels
No way to retribution
For the sun that failed to shine on the rose
For the water which was meant to fill her heart
For the hand that was meant to stretch her upwards
Retribution has forced my hands to dig
To bury
A body which no longer exists
A head which is lost
This is the edge of existence
There are no soft round hopes of sun or warmth
These are the edges of rose
I feel them every time my hand reaches into the bush
Bone cold fingers on the grains that keep me warm.