I long to write
a poem like a rose
not blooming, bloomed
red, ripe, and ready to draw blood
words like petals
folding together
into a delicate perfection
but roses fade
into wrinkled, crinkled things
they lose their color
lose their form
then lose their life
till petal by petal
they fall to dust
nothing more than a spring dream
once seen
and at once forgotten
