Roses Are Dead

by Tim Clark


You've pulled me apart
just to pull yourself together.
Now I'm partial to seperation,
repeating an era like it's a
chorus to my great depression.
Anxiety is my chocolate noose.
You'll have to eat your way out
or digest the emptiness soon.

Would you ring your wrists for me
If I decided to engage familiarity
and leave intimacy at the altar?
Your metal bridal gown will weigh
down spendour under the marquee.
I forced my vows, forging a crowd
around a crown worse then thorns.
There's a stampede singing...

"Give me the gun."
I shot a flower once
but the bullet wilted
before it hit her stem.
When the smoke
cleared the lead
grew to full bloom.
I'd choose pollen
over gunpowder;
allergies over eulogies.

The breeze squeezed the trigger,
casting seeds to spray in every
direction; falling like lost stars
cast from a galaxy of dandelions.
I inserted clips into the dirt,
learning this earth is worlds away
from the roads were dark roses
allure us with fragrant stains.
I'll keep pedels in my pocket to
heal the pain she planted, though
these sentiments aren't organic.

She consumed me in her fire-arms.
There's no wholes in her black heart.