To Admire Not the Rose, But Me.

To Admire Not the Rose, But Me

Weighted, I stand for the train.

Shaking; it was easier last year.

Don’t they see my eyes,

Tracking passing windowless frames?

 

A congregation whole and content,

To be artlessly fulfilled by neighbors.

Arms crossed tightly and gesturing,

Glance, but keep it moving.

 

No, a field of roses stretches beyond.

And why avert their gaze?

The world is beautiful, sweet, and vast,

And I lose sight quite frequently.

 

But who would see the emptiness,

The tattered, cheery supporter?

The ill-proportioned physicality?

The more than meets the mind?

 

It’s tangled, yes, so they look on.

The train abound to fields.

I grasp a rose from nearby earth,

Clutching in hopes to attract.

 

“Look here, look here”

I grab the brush,

The thorns of those who’d sooner spurn.

Advances punished by forces unyielding.

 

Holding the space where blood meets the air,

Commandeer this livelihood.

Grasping for meaning,

Silent as steel and contempt roll on.

 

Turn to myself, my feet, and my brain,

Disembodied, dejected charm.

A desert of fleeting sunlight,

The tracks, the only progression.

 

Pick up a single rose left to overlook,

On the windowsill, open the shade.

Allowing its satiny conspicuous petals

To show forth from unassuming curtains.

 

Hoping, inauspiciously, for you.

To hop intemperate from the moving train,

Careening into view, decisively,

On the horizon.

 

To admire not the rose, but me.

 

 

 

Reviews

[Joshua J. Certain]

I love the whole scenery, of roses growing by train tracks, such an artistic flow with perfect contrast this was a beautiful piece of writing.

[Dream Weaver]

A beautifully composed piece
between a rose in bloom and
a rose who’s hidden behind a
window dying to be seen as
well as heard.
Nicey done Lindsey...