Craving for light, 
The little rose sways.
Within aching petals,
Captured: are the gentle rays.

Shaking the biting winds away.
Pretending a crow's whispers are at bay. 
All the while, 
Memories replay;
Increasing its thorns day by day. 

Upon the nights that draw too close
Amongst stars reluctant to share solemn glow. 
The little rose, it heeds their call.
Slowly...
Surely...

Abandoning bloom.

Yes, but certainly the sun will always rise.
Just as it is destined to set.
Acknowleging the subtle difference,
Is something the rose now neglects. 

Lacrymose, it laments till' morning dew.
Singing songs of times long forgotten. 
Blinded by sorrow, 
Imprisoned by gloom.
The rose—oh so sweet,
Yet so faint,
Seeks out such selfish warmth.

Privy, it sways towards the sky.
Clouds above are cautioned by these crimes.
Despite it all, the rose does not care.

Nor will it ever again.

i trot into the garden per usual
where whirling verdant blades
and petals made of velvet
wave to greet me

as the sounds of spring spur me on
i cross through the morning fence
where my nurturing days will commence

welcoming such vibrancy in warmth
i shower these flowers with love
snuggle earthy soil firm at their bases
then place atop each one a honeyed kiss
since roots become restless
without something to miss

yes
i have done this for
each season’s pass
and soon i find myself
standing on tiptoes
at long last

refilling a bruised bucket
handle laced between my grip
i reach up
just a droplet they need
but miss

the sky blushes blue above them
a gentle gust guiding easy gaze
i look towards the smiling sun
tending to changes

realizing
i am the one
who withers away

Three days ago
I painted a portrait
Born from your vitriol and presented it to you
In a rusted metal frame
But you didn't see it

Two days ago
I broke into song
Berating your own scarlet red eardrums
The window wide open
But you didn't hear it

Just yesterday
I pounced on your back
My ironclad vice rattling your sullied skull
Chest pressed against spine
But you didn't feel it

How can this be?
You are not blind
Nor are you deaf
I know well that you taste
Mournful ministrations
Of touch

The pain, the pain
O’ dear agony, my brain!
I spread across sheets
Soaked, lapped up, re-soaked,
And stained

Tonight
I turn my bed to coffin
Because of you
Since now I understand
You just never cared

Inky entrails glide
across an awaiting canvas,
like a figure skater
striving to carve their existence in ice.

Never pondering the meaning of destiny,
or the true nature of its own creations;
this pointed tip is forever poised
for battle.

Wielding a weapon of manifestation,
The Master shivers slightly up above.
A desperate hand is wound tightly
around its aching, glossy form.
This body serves as the ultimate tool.
The conveyer of truth.