The heart yearns to live,
to breathe and drink of love,
to drown in the sea of passion,
to frolic in the fields of lust,
savoring the intoxicating aromas,
of a verdent pasture,
alluring and charming.
As I behold the wondrous plethora,
of vibrantly enchanting flowers,
my body dances in awe,
lost in a tantalizing trance,
viewing the mundane rudiments of nature,
coalescing with the intricate details,
only the soul of an artist may witness.
Out of the corner of my eye,
a lush bush of roses,
red as my cheeks,
blushing among thoughts,
rushing over my form,
as my fingers caress the elder rose,
speaking to my spirit,
with sweet tenderness,
in comparison to the languid sounds,
of typical boisterous shrieks,
emitting from the urban machines,
lacking the genuine melody,
from my serenading rose.
Temptation promotes the courage,
to cup the flower with the palms,
of my hands,
as delightful smells,
tickle my nostrils,
allowing desire to control,
the reigns of the wild stallion,
raging inside this delicate tulip.
After vast contemplation,
from the internal ticking of my chambers,
I retrieve my dagger,
remaining above my thigh,
bound by the fabric of my garments,
slicing the stem of the elder rose,
away from its origin,
catching this marvelous gift of nature,
before the ground can taint,
the petals,
gorgeous yet precariously fragile.
Fear egenders my grasp,
upon this flower to grow fiercely,
giving the roots opportunity,
to manifest into the soil,
of my compassionate touch.
I close my eyes,
envisioning a young maiden,
pplucking the petals off of a rose,
an oscillation of phrases,
swaying from her lips,
"he loves me;
he loves me not".
My eyes trace the nuances,
of the beautiful maiden,
strangely familiar yet intriguingly exotic,
as her eyes flicker,
opening as realization sweeps,
over my being as an epiphany,
restores the memories,
remembering the maiden,
is actually myself,
awakening from the daydream.
My hands rise to share,
their first encounter with my face,
since reaching this new clarity,
as my mind seems to be in a daze,
noticing the scars oozing with crimson tears,
as ache spreads upon me,
while my reality embraces the pain,
bore as thorns,
***** my soft skin,
as I possess the rose,
in my clutched palms.
The elder rose represents all my desires,
unfortunately a mere illusion,
lovely at first glance,
yet neglect of the inevitable thorns,
shall leave my chambers hollow,
ceasing all the flames,
once burnining with intensity,
a threat to the flower,
unscathed and full of terror.
Reluctantly, I let go of the rose,
tumbling to the ground,
as it bursts into ashes,
leaving my lens to focus,
on simplicities blinded,
by the yearnings of my hearth,
fueled by hopes of the elder rose,
leaving the glass of my heart,
full of wine; no longer half empty.