Birthday Rose

 

Should man pause long enough to smell the rose,

the rose might be the only flower hell ever see;

but should he see every flower that ever blooms,

he might never know how sweet the rose can be.

You are my rose. Can you not see

that your sweet fragrance has captured me?

Upon wetted knee I kneel this morn

in dew-dampened garden Im pricked by your thorn.

Into your petals, my nose is slipped,

as I lick the blood drop from my fingertip.

I close my eyes with blood-tinged tongue

and draw in the freshness of your bloom so young.

Locked shut are the organs with which I see

as your fragrance completely spellbounds me.

Unable, am I, to consciousness return,

without remembrance of how your thorn did burn,

and how the remembrance of the fragrance of a sweet rosebud

brings with it the remembrance of a sting and the taste of blood.

 

September 26, 1992

 

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