one last prose
for the road,
shrouded
with
Rosebush regrets,
compunction and shame,
of
anguish and pain,
knowing things can never,
quite
be the same as they were,
yesterday.
In prickly heat,
sweaty, sweet, benediction.
My demuric affliction,
masks and veils addiction.
Stifled in harbours
of
resentments first tooth.

Who knew,
the crow flew in a
beeline.
Stinging' it’s way amongst the vagaries.
The geodesic distance,
hides in the light,
but
the road,
      bends,
  and
     throws those
curveballs
       I swerved,
around them all,
as,
I’m not ready to fall for you;
petal.
With my foot on the metal,
I took the road for granted.
Granted,
I should of known better than a
kiss from a rose.