Roses

I dispise how a potted rose is made to sit
Soaking up evening sun through a window.
At night, the light fails its hit
And the flower can no longer grow.

I remember when a dozen or so
Of those beautiful red kisses
Would make any lover’s heart glow
And grant most romantic wishes.

But slowly at first and eventually quicker
The sunlight breaks still and sets,
And lovers health out of their liquor
To return to their despair and regrets.

While true that sweeter names remain
And thorns might rip soft skin,
Blood from the heart flows all the same
When poured over forgotten sin.

Cringe not then for the memories
That those flowers retort,
But for the grass and tress
That do nothing of the sort.