Roses trek ten thousand miles,
held between fingertips, intentions so gentle,
just to be present for love;
yet, the petals do not withdraw when lips conceal it.
Alas, we have us,
crouching like surveyors,
hauling baggage like shields.
Love eeks via clogged smokestacks:
for us, the temple voyage will be a trek,
aching and arduous,
hauling withered personas,
clawing and clutching railings all the way.
Proclaim the rose an ideal? pssshaw -
instead of sliding through holy water,
the way dolphins do,
our separate starlit camps
howl at the light and bray forgiveness.
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1 comment:
The imagery shows crystal-clear heartbreak.
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