I caught a whiff of the final rose
when following a trail of wilted petals,
on a search for a place to heal
the damage caused by running
through thorns.
I found you behind emerald vines
clinging to the sills of open windows,
tending neglected flowers,
in a garden with little hope
of regrowth.
And I knew that this
was the beginning of forever
for a broken honeybee.
Tag: Flowers
Wilted
They stripped my thorns,
and cut my stems,
leaving me
nothing more
than wilted rose petals.
Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!
I. Chain-Link Fence
*This is part one to the collection, To Plant the Memories Like Seeds
Check out part two, Greenhouse*
The chain-link fence stands ten feet tall,
twice my height with barbed wire curled
between the thin metal links.
I stare at the fence-at my memories
keeping the dreams within perimeters,
the nightmares hidden in the spikes
protruding every other inch.
Everything inside, slightly out of focus,
my eyes drawn in by the shine of your
teeth reflecting on the barrier.
Your eyes held no shine at all,
a dull, lifeless pair of marbles,
leafy green like that of virgin
Mary’s fine rags. (What an irony)
I was before the fragmentary fence,
the construction carrying on as the
events played out.
I remained on the outside with the
wolf, his breath tickling my nostrils
with the snarls amplifying the weight
of his words-
How beautiful the flower had grown
to become, what a shame the stem
couldn’t live up to the petals.
You did not take the Mary from my
name, but only if we speak in
technicalities.
Just because the fence bares many
holes, does not mean it is fine to
claim one over others because you
like the way it looks in your possession.
Just because you steal one, does not
mean it will not affect the rest, they are
all still connected to one another.
It was of no surprise to me that
everyone liked you- a wolf in
sheeps clothing knows its disguise.
I knew you from when you were but
a florist, until it was decided that I
no longer needed your services.
You climbed your way into my garden
and ripped up the roots that would
have otherwise become the chain-
link of opportunities.
When planted in the flowerbed, I can
no longer take chances with adding
color to my monochromatic theme.
I almost miss the time I was too young
to realize the grower was becoming a
flesh-hungry animal, ready to pounce
on the dandelion who’d finally become
a rose.
I used my thorns like the barbed wire,
attempting to keep you out of my garth.
But the second time you tried to plant
seeds in soil that wasn’t yours, you
complimented my ability to maintain
the overgrowth.
I did not tell you it was prohibited, Instead
let you finish building the chain-link fence
connecting memories to anxiety.
Childhood Withered
Once upon a time,
I was a little girl, innocent, but for forbidden cookies before dinner.
I was a wildflower; small and pure, a growing desire to watch beauty succeed.
But as my growth stunted with an absent sun, I began to wither.
Harboring stolen hearts in broken jars, I was searching for my newest fix.
A craving to replace a ruined childhood, the price of goodbyes
was always so much cheaper than opening up past vulnerability.
Once upon a time,
I was a child with spirit and personality; not becoming what makes me, me.
Growing
I bury myself in these words; this earth,
letting them block out the light.
For this dirt is not just dirt; it is soil.
This nourished ground is enough to
rise the beautiful in the form of flowers and
hopeful wishes that keep me growing.
I welcome the grass and the trees
sprouting all around me. They give me
comfort; letting me know that I, too,
can rise above these roots and
live life healthy and beautiful
while still providing to those who
need my oxygen to survive.
Marysa Writes 