Do you mean your hands are
not only washed clean,
but never needed cleansing?
You were plucking roses
carefully and selectively.
Tell me you came back empty handed
because there were none worthy of collection?
There was one early bloomer which
made you forget about the rest.
Was it that you felt bad for the white,
with their brown speckled petals,
and the pinks who were insignificant,
a mere pastel, mute,
compared to the exposing red?
I see the blood on your fingers,
you must have found the thorn.
It criminates your cold, clean hands.
You try to explain it away;
but the bitter aftertaste brings you guilt.
I saw your footprints in the garden,
they sold me the story of your lies.
They leave the path to linger
in the newly bared bushes.
A single red rose grows,
flourishes,
as your dizzying prints choke it.
You let yourself indulge in it,
tomorrow you will come back for more.
But today,
today you soothe its' skin,
envy its purity.
You smell its forgiving breath,
and horde traces away on your finger tips.
You block its sun, steal its air.
You cast away the others,
understanding they are nothing.
You don’t care of the strength they hold.
They wither now,
in the sun that once fed them.
And you-
you rub the dirt away
as the rain baptizes the survivors.
You broke the vase.
It slipped from your grasp.
Where will you keep it,
the red one,
if you’ve got nothing
keeping it
keeping you,
back together? |
Submission Name: The Red One
