I picked up love once,
It, stranded on the pavement, wilting in the heat,
One arm stretched to the soil,
The other at me.
I bent over and cradled love in my hands.
It's frail and delicate thorns
Broke  under the light pressure of my palm,
It's paper-thin petals shattered into broken and dismembered sorrows.  

Although secure it seemed to long for something else.
It twisted and turned,
became restless in my safety.
It thrashed and shook, it convulsed,
And wept silent open wounds.  
It began to decay, burning what was important on the inside into embers of ignored pain.

From beauty to remarkable,
from remarkable to beauty again.
And from beauty the tragic of love was gone.


I picked up love once.
And when I put it down, only ashes remained.