The Roses
Chris Fields
[fieldsc@fclc.com]
Bent light befriends wall over there,
Dust suspended in the ray
Sound there is none in silence,
Sun-kissed rocker is place of repose,
To transpose to future history
My inexperienced history.
And in vacuum of productivity
All I see are my roses,
Created and caressed spiritually,
Yet thorny to make such pleasured beauty
Dangerous.
Trepidation guides my thoughts.
Who will tend to my roses?
Who will tend to my roses?
My life is wrapped as gift
In those god damned roses
I have given life to with my life.
And with my demise so too are the roses
Destined
To be reduced to hot tempered soil
And someone else's dream
Of what can be.
And this saddens more than the journey that
My life has toiled to create Eden
That is mortal like me.
© 1998 Chris Fields, all rights reserved
appears here by permission
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