Rose. The most perfect rose
Stained the snow
Sinking into the grave
I never knew its name
And she never knew
Of my existence
God made her perfect
But that rose. So perfect. Stained the snow where we all walk.

Gold
is something I'll never know

the best
I can hope for

maybe marble

but  it  will
most likely be

granite

(what does He think in His quiet time?)

a time of children in the rain,
playing and pretending to be... just children.

then,
when He awakens and stirs His heavy omnipotence,
solemn in its arrogance.

a dreadful conversion of rain into bullets
shatters the pretending children.

- all dreams turned to gray -

and the children,
who once played at pretending to be just children,
will become something else.

uncovering of guilt
can take some doing

my blindness
needing opening

a dream of the night
where strange drama unfolds

coming face to face
eye to eye

the pain I caused
in my weakness.

Don't mix pleasure with pain, it might **** you wanting to be alive inside him.