Around me is dying another day
silently falling in surge of emotion
in the mournful dirge of the dusk
dropping on the black drongo
flying home in dream of dawn
beneath the first star of twilight
blushing in the kiss of sky
heralding another earth evening
celebrating death in the dire need of
resuscitating life.

Raised with violence and harsh spoken words
She embraced fairytales, roses, and romance
Always seeking the different and absurd
It’s better than performing a cruel dance

Fantasy led her down the path of pain
Where self-hate and ignorance reigned supreme
Unable to cope, she felt quite insane
But that’s what comes from living in a dream

Tired of the dark, she sought a new path
Self-reflection led her to face her fears
And slowly her inner pain and deep wrath
Left, leaving room for hope’s light to appear

Still, she embraces roses and romance
It’s better than performing a cruel dance

Kelly Rose
© February 7, 2017

-- when I have the tenderness of a writhing dragon,
he will paint flowers across my throat

as though to remind me that fires are indelicate,
and that I writhe in a prison made of open space.
-- this man will not smother me with his skin
when we sleep.
-- this man will unhinge the door of my mouth,
and kiss out the bullets stuck under my tongue.
                                                                ­               ---
whatever thousandth day I awaken beside this man,
realizing I have become the flowers he painted
across my throat, by braving my throat,

I will, unchaining myself from the draconic worry,
bring him his coffee in bed, with a smile.

I want to marvel at the sky
As sunlight sneaks away
Yielding to majestic night
As colour bleeds from day

I'd leap at the horizon
Beat wings against the Moon
And touch the bonny Rainbow
Through which fierce fires bloom

I'd climb upon the stairs of heaven
For a better view of Earth
And behold her awed by splendour
Of her gestating girth

Sometimes at night

asleep by the firelight

I dream about them

how they died

some are singing

and others saying what

they no longer see

walking fencelines

limping as if in pain

some of them handsome

and some mysterious

silent but not

for long they tell you

men scarcely know

how beautiful fire is

and old stories

they can't remember

unless you can

still look them in the eye.