Pt. I

The metaphor of having a dead rose

on my room-wall still holds fast

in my mind. I've had it between

both my house

and this apartment. "Love is dead"

reads the poster.

No words are needed,

because symbols speak only

to those who listen.

So listen

as my heartbeat six years broken

tells me to recollect that six

is my favorite number. I know

a third go at love is charming

in thought. But in reality

I have a dead rose on the wall

of my room.

Pt. II

A room is like the reflection of the soul.

I told him this with utter certainty.

But our room is shared.

So he wouldn't agree.

He finds any piece of the heart detestable.

Especially when it interferes with the soul.

And he hates a dead rose in a room.

Pt. III

I RECEIVED A ROSE AT MY GRADUATION.

I GRADUATED WITH THE LOWEST GRADES POSSIBLE.

I WAS GIVEN A WHITE ROSE FOR FAILURE.

AND SO FAILURES STACK HIGH ABOVE THE REST.

TEACHING ME THAT A ROSE IS MEANINGLESS.

(a rose is meaningless)

WHEN IT IS A SYMBOL.

I ACCEPT THE TOKEN OF APPRECIATION.

APPRECIATION DIES.

THE HEART DIES.

I UNDERSTAND THAT

Pt. IV: End

This rose died to recollect,

evoke,

a memory of the heart

(memory is kept within the soul)

that stirs and reeks of death.

And so I reel back

and forth melodically, I search

the boat - rowing to the cliffside - I

know that somewhere

I'll find the rose. Without sight

or scent, a rose is no symbol of love.

But trust me when I tell you,

THE ROSE IS THERE.

I CAN FEEL IT.

IT'S DEAD.

FRAIL.

WITHERED BENEATH MY FINGERTIPS.

I TOOK A WITHERED, MEANINGLESS ROSE.

AND I PLACED IT

(I placed it)

UPON MY LIPS

(My lips bleed now)

(Pt. 4, Verse 3)

A white rose means nothing.

Only red to America symbolizes love.

But red to me

symbolizes lust. A passion and yearning

for the secrets of a stranger.

Because we seek to feel stranger,

when the unknown

is comfort in our rooms. The stranger

is secret-less

in our beds. The white rose

is virgin, bled to red,

to lust, secret-lessness secreted in

-to a stranger.

And now a white rose

means something.

And yet still, to me,

this tale speaks oft and only of breaking.

Pt. V

A white rose is to break the lips.

.of anotheR

A white rose is to steal.

.from your rooM

A white rose is all she is.

.and all he haS

A red rose is a reminder.

.to why my white rose dieD

[x2. .x1]

Pt. 6 (Pt. VI): Death of a Lord

So chant the four words in chorus like you were told.

And know this well,

They

will promise you that a white rose

is failure.

They won't understand that a dead rose

is the token of loss.

You wouldn't understand

that a dead, white rose

is not the loss of virginity.

A dead rose can bleed red

no longer.

And in reality, next to a picture of

the Death of a Lord,

I only have one withered rose.

Not six

or three.

And I'm afraid to cut my forearm

to paint the rose. Red is tampered

and tainted by the world beyond.

Honored by the world around.

I wish not for a red rose.

And I will paint it when my blood

runs black.

I know that a rose died in my room.

I understand

that in reality,

the rose

speaks loud to tell tales

beside the portrait.

The same words written

upon both posters on my wall.

Pt. VII

I have a dead rose

taped on the wall of my room.

It's thirsty, but it can never drink.

The dead cannot sip from the cup,

even if they look to be alive.

End

I have a dead rose on my room-wall.

My soul wants me to stop

writing poetry.

His mind, his mouth,

tell me to stop

worrying about a damn rose.

(December 17, 2017, 1:52 AM)

"What's dead is dead," he said.