A flower.
Ha.
Insignificant- correct?
Pointless beauty in a world of war games.
Bold poppies, gushing in red- Flanders-
The bloody flowers spilling forth between icy lips.
Lilies. Gentle bloom, veils between the living
And those below the bedded soil. I stroke the velvet white petals,
Leaving it next to drop at that fatal sign of stone.
I look back:
Hold a buttercup to your chin.
Golden glow flows against your pale skin.
You laughed; so like angel song.
Beauty sound to kiss my ears.
You- a teenage youth; in one moment thrown back
To a child, as we ran through empty
Glowing grass growing fields,
As we pick the flowers.
Finding then a four pieced clover.
Greening good luck you plucked from
Earth to give to me.
Your wish- to bring me, hold me close
Bind me by veiling my lips with yours.
So, with a star-ish rock encased in banded white gold,
Comes to me One Rose.
Redder still than poppies were,
Though blood comes not to weaving thoughts…
Just a love, with kissing petals
Unbound from a bud
To flourish forth and…
Finally wilt: like you…in your casket…now.
But Our Love- unlike those flowers dead-
Falls not in your last, your final, season.
