Sunday, February 20, 2011

Red Roses



Red roses lay perfectly still

against a wall of concrete

pouring out colors of the bleeding hearts—

singers with their songs of love,

and saddened poets with verses of loneliness

and finally you, staining my life with your red tears

which explode on fresh linen, ghostly white

become footprints of our history together,

a path that leads us to the bitter end.

It is true, all things fade

the strong become weak

and memories become diluted in time

remembered as only images of red wine and lipstick,

everything related to love—

but not the lack of it, as fire consumes

and the Devil, who recreated St. Valentines Day

one cold morning in nineteen hundred twenty-nine

making crooked cupids stinging arrow,

and forever keeping the red roses

from being truly red.


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