Rose-burn

Unspoken, unidentified tragedies ... I wonder if bad news and devastation are better delivered With the merciless blow, like finding out you'll die just before Christmas Or rather should they creep into your room in the primal, every-man-for-himself cloak of night And begin discretely, strategically feasting on your sanity I say its better to have it all at once Then you can at least identify the time and nature of the tragedy in its entirety But when it creeps and manifests itself In pieces over time you find yourself unprepared and dismayed You have contempt for its mocking namelessness You try to complete a puzzle of organic, silent pieces You sit at the table clutching a warm cup of coffee Hoping its sweet warmth might offer your heart relief And your bed has been made for a year A year of squatting on stale carpet Urgently organizing the collections of letters you'll never send A year of leaning over a kitchen counter Breaking your ribs in the name of some blues song you resonate with A year of rest neither for your heart nor your bones Why sleep if you must sleep alone? Why sleep with someone besides your love? Why sleep when you know you'll wake empty and sober with a dream of the past lingering? Why allow your brain the opportunity to let you live out those wonderful memories you've been clutching Like a ten ton razor-stemmed rose wet with rubbing alcohol It burns, it stings Why go as far as to allow dreams of love? The rose's weight would then increase Rose's are morbid and veangeful and harsh I want to hold soft sunflowers and never sleep again Hallucinate a happy world, hysterical insomnia For that way of salvation I need speed To soften all the petals my palms seek No more rose burns for my tender-fleshed heart.