Flower Seeds


This is the rhythm of a flower's heart beat.
Harmony off of the leaves where showered thorns be.
Rain percipitates creating the different tastes
Of man as he perceives what is to come of the seed.

She'll be back.

She'll be back...

This watering hole
Makes me
Sure of it.

Falsely,

secure in it.

And one day before I doze off
I shall plant my seed...

That's my word.

That's my seed.

It's the love she's supposed to
Hold for me.

This is the timbre of the rose bud
No love is greater
than it's insufficient symbolism.
Red Rose, the color of love
Ambiguous in how it fits in.
Color of love,
Color of blood
Drained from the corps
From the ones we love.
Once shed, once dead,
Life is lost, and even yet
We herald the appearance
Of a rose's sanguine grace...

Love
Loss
Wisdom
Pain

Place it in the window pane
For the world to never look
And see its shame...

Created asexually
I hold this rose
Hold it contemplatively
up to my nose.
It knows not it's sweet stimulation
Of the Olfactory sensation
And yet we place it
In the hands of whom we
Intended to love.

I am either in a stupor
Or a little more sober

Because I realize now my malaise.

For she won't come back.

Not to me.

Not to see
This sadness I'm in solely out of self pity.
She is the whisper

of a
distant
muted
drum or
saxaphone

That's the whole
tradgedy of
a man alone.
Jazz in a lonely place
His own discrace
Holding a rose
truncated at its base



The unintentional,

ironic

and ambiguous

Symbol of

Love

Makes it's decision for you

As each petal falls:

She loves you not...

She loves you not...

She loves you not...

She loves you not...


And yet I still sit
in the silence
Between the petal falls
And water my words
With cheap wiskey

Pitifully and swiftly

Whispering

Yes she does...

Yes she does...

Yes she does...

Yes...

I pray
one day
My tears
become rain


so I

can sow

the

seed

of

love...