Poetry

The Rose

By 24th July 2006December 9th, 2019No Comments

A smell so perfect it makes me weep
Colour so deep its almost projecting taste
Gripping the sharp thorns in my left hand
The blood oozes down my wrist yet feels almost sexual
Like a lightening bolt from Valhalla I understand
My headless body is tossed in the sand
The rose broken but still gripped tightly in my corpses hand
My Mother standing in the light
Tears trickle down our cheeks onto my Rose
It’s damaged petals reform
Warriors in armour take my Rose
We embrace
I understand everything.

Mack

Author Mack

More posts by Mack

Leave a Reply