Forgive the Rose
Oh, God, spare me the bloodied, thorny, rose
call it naught by the color of its shame
promises of loves unending future
masking the silent scent of love’s demise.
Glory not the crimson of its passing
nor weep as crying petals hit the floor
hold tight to thorn stung stem - a bloodied lust
at rest upon the stillness of her breast.
Oh, God, spare me the sodden, teardrop rose
too late the touch of kindness comes again
to kiss the dwindled cheek – a faded passion
a coldness that defiles the touch of death.
Oh God, forgive the rose its indiscretions
for beauty is the bauble of the weak.
©8/6/2018
for Brian Strand - August 2018 Premiere poetry contest
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