Rose garden

Creepers run amok over fertile ground

Roguish vines trip unwary feet

bored, curious, covetous

a few tree heads peer over the hedge

wearing derelict love nests in their hair.

A black rose struggles to open,

petals flapping in a fervid rain

Some bold buds try to wriggle out

pushing my naïve fingers as I struggle

to sustain an aura of bucolic charm.

Dark bodied passion to white sugary charm

The spectrum dangles in a torturous silence

beleaguering the retina with fugacious ink

stabbing me with those revered thorns,

scratching a talisman into my naked opulence

but I bleed more from their surreptitious strokes.

Roses are red no more once dead

but the callers never return to discern

wooing the fetching blooms till they wilt

The barbed rose bush remains my only love

Her dead leaves, all mine to bury and mourn

Her wanton weeds willing to wander over my ground.

  -Reena Prasad

14th August 2012


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