(A Tribute to Divorcees)
So in the end your blushing bride
turns out to be but a rose.
A thorned and fragile flower,
fast to fade beneath the gaze of
a sultry sun that is not her own--
Dying daily despite all the sweet
water you plaintively pour upon
her pale but pestilent petals.
She was not the once and
never again of your life--
She was but a rose.
So in the end the blossom of your
love sunk her gnarled roots
into the silt of a strange and
foreign flood plain. Somewhere
sultry and luscious and so far away--
well perhaps the Rhine was simply a
better suited terrain for her
sickly and silk-skinned ways?
She was only your now and
never your always and forever--
she was ut a rose.
Now this death has dwindled down
into a dull and decaying ache so
try to remember this when next my
hair is clenched in your fists--
Not all women are frail flowers.
Some of us are statues of sirens
etched eternally in the tried
and tempered steel of trust.
Some of us are strong and
some of us are free.
Some. Some like me
But not she.
She was only a ruse.
She was only but a rose.