you look right by the gnarled white gates and you can see perfect roses scattered everywhere. you can see their perfect red petals, they even sway softly under the moonlight breeze. you see this and you do not think 'beautiful' all you can think is 'mine'. and then we are yours. you don't softly unbolt the lock and slowly open the gate. you do not take careful steps so as not to damage us. you do not look and admire, maybe caress a petal. you do not. you do not. you have torn open the lock, the gates. you have destroyed not only petals but buds and stems. how have you destroyed stems with prickled thorns. where have they gone? the rose garden has softened us. safety has blanketed us and we cannot protect ourselves with thorns because all we have is the week wilt of our shame left in us. you leave the rose garden, scattering us along your walk home, leaving a trail of pleasant rose petals for the next man to find.
YOU ARE READING
Foam & Folds
PoetryIf you like amateur poetry and the beach you should read what I've written
