The Honest Flower

I stand with three roses blocking my way.

They demand a choice I have not yet chose.

Red, pink, black all each determined to say.

So I scrutinize each possible rose.

A devil keen in his power to obsess.

I stare at the red captivated by its song.

What is love really after its best? – True,

It’s not, never was, but a hope gone wrong.

The pink tells what I should, but what I am?

To conform would be a banal release.

I lean forward tempted by the soft hand,

To swap myself for something that would please.

Then I reach out having made up my mind.

Life is lived in dark candor of one kind.