His rose

The boy would stop to smell the rose

When he grew tall enough to reach

Abrading his nose upon a petal frayed

While he suffocated on the redolence

Rooted from his rafter for the dearest of life

Suspended by its thorny vine, the hanger hung

It was ever there, of his being a part, apart

No other flowerbed was so enticing

No other garden welcomed him so

art: gallow.. by Peterio

The din

The unexpected presence of a new
voice rose through his darkened din;
it is crystalline and promising,
frightening and unobtainable

Wayward imagination will choose its
usual ruse ere he’s disabused; one for
which he unerringly falls, evidenced
by his halls of fancied fallacies

Is that simple gullibility or blind
intractability? Is it desperate
esperance or innate insanity? Muses
he, as if they were different animals

An eximius cynosure who fearlessly
holds the gaze of his inward eye,
a new rose voicing its presence, in
a proem of potential affinity

He can envisage moving a mountain
with a concinnity of extempore,
then applies the verse to her soul,
though nary a chance she’ll be moved

She only scratches the surface of
his brainpan, when the curiosity
is relegated to marginalia, her gaze
drawn away by more talented artists

Abrupt experrection from reverie,
when the din again darkens a rose,
he internally eternizes the memory,
in his oft visited garden of prose

art: dead roses by George Muscalu

Morning flower

He rests the white flower in its waiting vase

Vaugely smiling upon the brown, darkened soil

Then sets the arrangement in its hallowed place

And waters the morning garden, ever so loyal

At once a thunderous storm begins brewing

And sets to air an aroma that he could hug

So lovely, he can’t help ‘fore his eyes start dewing

While he frantically looks for his favorite mug

*my obligatory wp coffee post

Tombstone garden

Imbroglio bedlam –
madness wing, twin
windows barred behind
a wilting cinquefoil

Twisted linen ropes
escape each, abseiling to
the tombstone garden where
within the pistil presses

Genuflect beneath sacrificial
temples sullied by questions,
reverent before silent halls
unadorned by answers

Guiding the supplicant
hand of god to take a
life, to free a life of god-
given mayhemic servitude

art: Depression by xfoshizzlexx

She

She saw him daily in the garden

She decided he was the one

She willed him to pick her
stopping for none other

And so he did.

He took her to his humble home

He nuzzled her silken skin

He placed her on a pedestal
to enchant all who would pass

And so she did.

She dazzled them with her petals

She beguiled them with her scent

She would die adored, fulfilled
and being he daily in their garden
would bethink himself of her.