(This is something of a response to her most recent poem)
A rose may always be a rose,
But in decay it smells twice as sweet,
we ache to resurrect what once was
or could have been,
the scent of roses rising in the head
as I whistle passed
these graveyards,
the bones of those who found it easier
not to be than to keep on struggling,
all our own morality
undone
with our mortality,
each linked to each other,
more connected by living
than lovers are by love.
How sweet the smell is
when we can’t get it
back,
though the thorns still draw blood
We either be or move on,
or we cease to be,
drinking too deeply waters
that bring cold comfort
but do not give back what we ache for most,
we pointlessly clutching dead roses,
So sweet, when we need to survive
whistling passed the gravestones
of those can no longer choose,
with no options,
no future,
just sickly
sweetness.
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