A card given by a stranger
With a poem written down clumsily
“Don’t die like a rose,” it says
A girl sitting at the back
Holding her sketch pad,
pencil, watercolour, and paintbrush
Lines, curves, dimensions—
Submerge in a nightmare
Lost in a maze of
Unforgotten memories
Her body is damaged
Skin peeling off
As she tries to find her way back
“Don’t die like a rose,” it says
She has nothing left
Only a pile of poems,
Stories, drawings
That holds a secret
Everyday misery becomes
Her good lover
It sings as she sleeps
Cuddling her in the darkness
Of a room filled with ghosts
Misery showers her with
Anguish of morning kisses
“Don’t die like a rose,” it says
There are no longer fireflies
That stay in her eyes
Her lips are out of colour
Unlike her drawings
Spilled with red, orange,
green, and black
A world she creates
Freeing her soul
Letting it soar to join
The hues of a sunset
“Don’t die like a rose,” it says
But beautiful stranger,
She died a thousand times
Death is her friend
She’s been waiting for
To take her away
In those vast universe
Of stars, daffodils, cigarettes,
Metaphors, violins
She longs to run in the meadows
Where grass dances
As she smiles finally
September 7, 2015
