Do roses feel themselves dying?
Do they know?
Can they sense their tresses wilting,
as a black winter comes to crow?
Such a prideful flower, a pleasant maestro.
A cacophony of likenesses,
reared for beauty,
but also sorrow.
Often swept up in love,
when really a rose is merely a rose.
Bones groaning and creaking, the elegant skeletons danced.
They were dressed in a delicate array of snow, with hollow stars winking from their throats.
Wind flowed through their limbs, a song written in a language long forgotten.
The skeletons’ arms stretched towards the dark sky, praying to some unforeseen goddess that lived above them.
So immersed were they,
these skeletons of old,
that they did not hear the screams.
The silent cries of their neighbors as serrated steel penetrated their skin and ripped away at their insides.
Until it was happening to all of them.
Meaning is lost,
bravery is dead,
in all of the places but inside my head.
Adventure is out of reach,
its fruit a succulent peach,
growing high above my head.
A path we all walk on.
A path we all tread.
A road that differs from the one in my head.
I cannot belong here,
this is not my reality.
I was misplaced,
trapped in mortality.
The flames chatter to themselves in the fireplace, an eerie dialogue of insanity for any who walk near. Two armchairs, leather skin pulled tight over their flames, duel in silence. Each is precariously turned towards the other, foul words of a previous conversation hanging in the stale air.
But my calamity lies with the heads.
A line from a novel comes to me,
“We bear the grins of the smiling dead.”
So truthful a description, for a place such as this.
A macabre theatre of plaques and glass eyes, static veins and dull teeth. A glass of amber liquid – whiskey probably – sits on the coffee table, a buffer zone between the somber chairs.
It reflects the cruelty, the sourness, of this grim parlor.
Mechanical organs and broken clocks.
That’s all I feel.
Torn pages smeared with ink,
echoes of sonnets from the brink.
A tattoo on my wrist,
stemmed by a vein he once kissed.
An empty meadow,
a quiet breeze.
A wasteland liar,
an apocalyptic tease.
Humans should not fear death,
for we caused it in the first place.
Death fears nothing,
nor does it bow to any vestibule of fate.
Love fears nothing,
not even Death.
In some cases,
Love and Death are the same person.
Two halves of a coin.
Two sides of a card.
Two faces of a god.
Two hands of a devil.
Writers are murderers in their own right,
sealing fates with words of contrite.
It is on the carcasses of trees that they ink their tales,
Blood is the ink by which they use,
blackened by the deaths it has transduced.
Employed are a writer’s words of guise,
capable of telling both truth and lie.