Red roses still fresh
Scissor cut stems immersed in clean, cold water.
A warm body naked,
Under almost fresh, white sheets.
Forming a solid silhouette,
Over my muse of infatuation.
The late morning sun,
Smashing on the curtains,
Pounding on locked doors,
For a glimpse of my world.
The birds disturb this calm,
And I’m sure somewhere wild flowers bloom.
A decaying night,
But a vivid blur.
Wounds on my body
The only proof,
Against a heart denying
A perspective truth.
There are places and moments in this world,
That one could confuse for heaven…
Perhaps even forsake it for,
A single red rose reminds me.
Tapestries untouched,
Woven in silk and the finest garments.
I find myself viewed,
By none but me.
Colours vivid,
Without the clear light of day.
A spectator,
In my own play.
The ceilings were high,
Enough for demons to view.
The carpet smooth,
Underfoot.
Sitting beside the late morning bed,
I watched her dream.
Hoping that perhaps even one flicker of an eyelid,
May be for me.
There is a modest kitchen,
A toilet and living room.
A grand television,
Books on art, poetry, and Russian.
But I know nothing,
Beyond these walls.
Counting crows lie awake in perfect blue buildings,
While I stare in an almost empty apartment room.
In inspiration,
The world does not exist.
She sleeps in a peaceful slumber,
Ignorant to the appreciation wasted her way.
She will wake uncaring,
Of poetry written in her name.
How I wish she were a virgin,
So I could have known her in only the purest manner.
My hands still smell of her,
I keep them close to me.
I can still taste her,
So I refuse to eat.
A dying romantic,
Kept alive by mere moments alone.
Paintings destroy their artists,
And music their composers.
They leave me with words,
When I long to live through you.
The curtains pulled back,
All doors unlocked.
The light is too bright
For my eyes.
I can see everything,
When I longed to see none.
Sitting motionless,
Whilst in tears she dressed.
Covering for the last time,
All that was mine.
No breakfast together,
It is not fitting.
Under the spring white flowers,
Of small supple trees,
We kissed goodbye,
And I looked at her for the last time.
Walking away in silence, smiling
For we never had our first fight.
By Haemophiliac…
