The Rose

never a web of any special design,
the ones I am caught in, time after time:
first, she loves me, then she loves him,
as I strangle slowly on her every whim;

it's my lot, at least that's what I suppose,
that the sharper the knife,
the sweeter the rose;

never a different choice that I can see,
only the one, staring right through me:
take me or leave me, just say it so
I will be free when I'm ready to go;

it's my lot, at least that's what I suppose,
that the quicker the slash,
the sweeter the rose.



February 14, 2009.

Copyright ♥ 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.