dead roses...

i think of the words you left me…
i imagine what they meant
coiled inside dead roses, black linen
innuendo curling the edges…
the acidic moisture of your tongue
clipping each syllable…
how you hate what i lack in
substance, surfeit, sensuality…
as you imagine i harbor my center,
keeping you forever adrift
denying you what you seek most in me…

the denouement is silence, a deadly void…
no retribution, no accusations;
vapor over pyres steaming in cold repression,
hissing half-truths hurled from on high.
petals of love once caressing, wrapping us
in secret harmony
turned poisonous, each syllable a psychic prick
exposing jealous asides
as we turn our backs on each other and wait
for the other to return,
knowing the inevitability of never…

love is fragile, beheaded blossoms
bleeding layers of loss,
pressed and pasted inside tissued tiers…
broken promises boxed,
set aside but never examined for shadows,
retching rejection in plastic bottles;
death of dreams and passion acknowledged
packed in trunks – put away…
yet anxiety lingers like left-over aroma,
perfumed saga of madness
in the unending aftermath of denial…

dead roses
by ja allen
prism gates