The Roses


They stand motionless, silent
Choosing the language of colour instead

Like clown faces frozen in time
Their welcoming pantomime is enigmatic, and problematic.
Because there’s hardly any audience
and barely a response

The branches are desperately reaching out, bending over,
heavy with blossoms
begging to be seen
begging to be smelled

As they try to lure you with their fragrance
into their silence
into their grief
, and onto their thorns.

So that you too, can feel the pain that they are feeling

For they have long ago accepted
That they are nothing but ambassadors
To an empty house

to be continued…(or not)

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