My gardener
Your touch, unknown
Innocent meadow frolics was the under-tone.
The expressions all hidden with play;
As a child's youth wiped and lead astray.
Commanding whispers ,
now siren .
Angry warning chants from tree tops;
to a past me ,
A young me .
A bubbly insecure ,
A Lost me .
The early discovers of this not so intriguing world;
Astounded and bewildering .
The thoughts were
New and interesting,
Yet this disease is frosted over with
Bonds of trust .
Hangman-tied up with
Bonds of blood
Of loyalty.
Vanilla sugar coated with routine.
A life time later and the score is set.
The seeds of vile infestation have grown, bountiful in their new living form.
But no living being knows how this once pure white rose now sources;
From its roots only black poisonous sustenance it seeps .
From its smell the rose is presently temptuoes.
Its appearance, none can go past .
Its being, wanted by all.
It is cut and nothing.It is cut deeper.
And there bleeds black.
Black clotted blood,
That drips slow and sad.
All that is planted is planted pure.
The poisoning.
The touch.
Of that harvested seed,
Is what we have now.
Now everything makes sense
Years and years of suppression
Of denial
Of ignorance
Naivety.
'Bless you were only a sprout,
A child,' child'
All events and emotions for adults
To play, lose and win at
Were all things your should have not seen,
Should have not heard.
Should have not felt the touch of .
And now the sadness lies with the lost time
Of youth.
Lost years of confusion and dis-orientation.
The lost days of hating at all your species.
Lost hours of self justification.
Through the wrong means,
Yes that was wrong.
And that was wrong .
And that one.
And now this being
Child.
This Flower,
Is haunted by the lost minutes
Of flashbacks.
The lost seconds of hatefully understanding what was.
And what shouldn't of been
Now this white rose is enveloped in the pumping toxic blackening poison within.
This rose's evil filled thorns are waiting to be cut.
The stem to be racked off
Dismembered from the contaminated touch;
and cut from the grips of this suicidal source that life let's live on,
That is blended with the inner death of innocence
Bleed out the black.
The numbness.
The ivy being.
The touch.
To bleed out everything that stops this
Pure
White
Rose
Being
A
Pure
White
Rose.
Pictures from
http://www.etsy.com/listing/77682170/bleeding-white-rose-original-still-life andhttp://www.ikbis.com/shots/156229?locale=en
