the rose,
so red and hematic,
frozen in a stasis bespeaking an organ
trampled under paws of clay
and muck
velvety and smeared with rancid dew,
oiled and stinking
of intent gone overdue
with consequence
the stem,
a long, thin
rapier of relief
with vicious thorns to prick the unaware,
left by those who don't give a clue
about lost adoration
the gift,
it's shallow and feckless stamp upon plated rainbows
abandoned as an over sight in a drive-by deluge
of signals that failed to include
the warp in trajectory
the bestower,
negligent, feral
naught but a fictitious mockery,
an idolizer of backwater by-ways
where guileless concubines vie for
stainless exaltation
the missive,
a word to the wary......
to invite disregard
by the enigmatic horticulturalist
is to leave your devotions
tender, ripe for economy
