There is a rose that seldom grows
beneath the shining sun,
Its thorny stem and fluted hem
shine when day is done,
Her beauty glows, this long-stemmed rose,
beneath the pale gaslight,
But in the days, her magic frays,
it only works at night,
It only works where danger lurks,
and men their flaws conceal,
With careless word and lies absurd,
they obfuscate the real,
They cannot know she sees them, though,
lest all her beauty fade,
Cut at the root, her magic mute,
another wasted Jade.
wetless tears and soundless words,
eyes full of nightmares untold,
she lives in the past and hides from today,
her future’s already been sold.
she writes her past in lines of blood,
along one slender arm,
elixir of forgetfulness,
to shield her heart from harm.
she hides from care and shame and pain,
becomes a living doll,
a mannequin who moves and breathes,
and walks down hotel hall.
wetless tears and soundless screams,
a heart grown progressively cold,
what will be left of her when she is gone,
a story that’s never been told?
a shadow that fades from memory and thought,
a forgotten puzzle piece,
a fragment torn from the tapestry,
or a sigh of sweet release?