Talking About My Dead Rose: It Is You

I've been told I'm a hopeless romantic. Here's a little bit of proof.

Talking About My Dead Rose: It Is You
O, red rose, come speak to me,
Now the wind
Whips through the trees, now
The shutters snap,
Snap go the shutters,
The only sounds I hear.

All the sweet Marjories and the not-
so-sweet Janes speak to me,
Like you should, from their
Quaint graves.
Lost souls; forgotten memories
Like the ones you give me, o rose.

Your bittersweet stench, still
Hot under my nose,
Fills my head,
A dizzying scent. I remember
Who I gave you to, now,
She is gone, gone now, gone, too.

All shriveled and crushed and sad
And flat you are,
All darkly brooding
In your allotted corner. Throwing
Accusations my way.
O, remembrances of a fresh you.

1993 - maarmie