rose
blood upon the snow is the only rose you ever bought me
you took my sons and opened up their inner to the sun
their centres spilling into a wasteland frozen
into desperation and a wailing
rising cloth that cries the enmity of mothers
and we ourselves chastise
for in our own innards
the deep furnace of recrimination
hissing hollow hot its scorching mouth
opens like a gasp the cackling tongues
from blame fires flame sires shame
in many monstered innards devouring coals of reason
and delusion sparks are many sparking witches in its cauldron gob
screeched as they wind the patterns out of that reason
invalid as the arguments of poisoned augury that circle round the feelings
giddied by their whirling
weak as only air
deranged and strong as coalesced
in the far recess of the self the etching acids of its force is stripping
layer from layer an beneath the jittered shell
its molten lava rises here or falling there
in turmoiled press
for once our own are gone
what are we in our vegetative selfs
to old to mate again too young to die
the thrust of life continues in our back
and throws us down its hill
we look back and see just snow capped motifs
speckled by the distance
and kick at rocks