The Darkening of Roses

Kneeling in a rustling shade,
Her fingers interlace around this clutch
Of beauty; white and red,
Dripping quiet life in beads which run
Down blackened lengths.

Their features gasp.
She holds their devil hearts
Beneath her face to taste a scent
Rawer than her own blood,
Or give an ear to dying words.

Sweetly fall their cries;
Red cloaks of quiet malice, stripped.
Once lain in wait like simpering virgins,
Now static; dry, defiled and torn
From mother soil.

Warm crimson trails
Like dirty antichrists
Run thin down flushing,
Freckle dusted skin
And she leans back; a murderess now.

Bringing one red fingertip
To turn and taunt their thorns,
The roses are opened; cruelly coaxed
To slacken and trust
The blade which changed them.



6 thoughts on “The Darkening of Roses

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