The Future of a Rose

 

Heaven sent,

or heaven censored?

Not a word of this gets spoken.

Cloistered in about the skull,

the same refrain repeats soundlessly.

 

Strict as perfect in a scripture,

the mind bends,

uncomprehending.

Eyes squeezed shut against the vision,

for only horror bares herself.

Trust is just as consequential.

 

I guess I’ve earned my place in Hell,

but there’s a stair there,

so I’ll climb it,

and die with a tale to tell.

 

It was never easy

to twist the words,

it was just a twisted mind

that heard them so,

and there’s always going to be

some trouble

up the road,

it doesn’t take a prophet to expose

the future of a rose.

 

Live and die

under the snow,

but come alive, again.

Blood red,

green thorns,

and gone again.

 

There are seasons in Heaven,

there are seasons in Hell,

and I’ll die with a tale to tell.

 

 

HG – 2020

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