Death By Roses


death by roses, she thought, 
death by roses

but she couldn’t write about that right now –
her skin was too thin not to write about stars,  
because heartache was a burden that was too heavy to bear

so, she sat there, writing about stars, 
forgetting about how he once brought her red roses and watched her bloom

she wrote about stars and kittens and the rising of the sun on cold December mornings, 
so that warmth might settle in her bones,
if only for a moment 

she sat there, pen in hand, 
pretending everything was fine,
writing about stars she couldn’t see,
warmth she could no longer feel

her skin was too thin not to write about stars,  
because heartache was a burden that was too heavy to bear,
and when she stopped writing about stars and kittens and the rising of the sun on cold December mornings,
the bruises felt all too fresh and the scars were still itchy and tender 

when she stopped writing about stars and kittens and the rising of the sun on cold December mornings,
her pen couldn’t stop writing about how he cracked her rib cage with fistfuls of longing, 
about how he watched as her entire being bent toward the light of his promises of forever,
about how she gave him pieces of herself she’d never shown another human being,
only to be pricked by his indifferent thorns,
about how he haphazardly plucked her from the life-altering soil and let her wither to dust 

she knew for certain that to love is to burden oneself with cracks in one’s rib cage,
with bruises and scars,
with the inevitable dangers of thorns

her skin was too thin not to write about stars –
but if he were to show up on her doorstep with open arms and a fistful of red roses…..

death by roses, she thought, 
death by roses

image via Pixabay; written in response to Mindlovemisery’s First Line Friday prompt

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Landscapes

I sometimes paint landscapes with silver-tongued brushes,
using a palette made of sand

pigments extracted from fruits of hope, 
each stroke with an unsteady hand

I sometime paint landscapes with silver-tongued brushes,
eyes closed as I take it all in

possibility unfolding behind wishful lids,
planting seeds deep within

I sometimes paint landscapes with silver-tongued brushes,
and watch as they wash away

sometimes hope goes only so far,
and seeds don’t see light of day

I sometimes paint landscapes with silver-tongued brushes,
they the predator, and I the prey

-image via Tumblr, original artist unknown

Worth the Wait

“I forgive you,” he said, so easily,
as if it took no thought at all –

my heart wasn’t prepared for that,
how could it possibly be that simple?

it became glaringly evident that love is a stream of mindfulness,
of choice after choice,
of forgiveness,
tiny currents of trust, which compound, gaining strength,
a path of morsels, each one made of bits honor, of memories, one after the other,
that leads you back to the person who is waiting,
who wants to wait,
who believes there was something worth waiting for

I followed the path,
I forgive you, too

we were worth the wait

Weary Bones, a Quadrille 

I hear my weary bones a’creaking,
 the slap-flapping of valves
   working overtime,
     ‘cuz they’re leaking

I feel the slowing tempo
 of waves receding,
   the acquiescence
     of my spirit weeping

I hear my weary bones a’creaking,
 but I can’t give in –

my soul’s still seeking

-image via Tumblr, source unknown; written as part of dVerse Poet Pub’s Quadrille prompt

Snow, a Quadrille 

once, her world sagged 
under the weight of the storm 

today, the storm is finally receding;
rain’s long, wet fingers caress,
hope falling in chilly droplets,
cleansing in goosefleshed trails 

there is something peaceful about her,
as if snow has settled inside her soul

-image via Pixabay; created and shared as part of dVerse’s Quadrille Monday