A pale blue silk thread
Has been sewn onto my pillow;
My future hangs by such.
Now, I understand the actor’s question,
“Do you like killing beautiful things?”
In that case it was a rose
Planted, fed, watered, sprayed, nurtured, admired
And then cut.
It was grown to cut
Like the lamb of God that takest away the sins of the world was grown to be slaughtered.
The alternative would be the slow death,
As each petal falls to the ground,
To be collected and secretly placed
In the shape of a heart on a bed
Or laid out on the grass in a line leading the way to the casket buried in the earth
I call out.
But she has gone,
Trust me, she has gone
Perhaps something remains,
Hanging by a pale blue silk thread.
I do not deny the charge but I admit no guilt;
It was me.
I drew three dots on my thigh in biro ink
So ******* what?