At The Club

Inspired by a night at The Crib

The red, red rose

Blooming bright

Catches your sight;

Your heart takes flight

To thorn’s delight.

Each petal, soft

To your aching touch

Seems like love so much,

Love’s sweet-scented clutch.

She sways and swings

So alluring,

Each wind assuring

That she’s all that’s occurring.

 

But slowly she’ll rot

And you’ll forget what she taught

It was your body she sought

To cling with thorns, caught.

You pull away, quite shocked.

 

Just below, the stone waits,

Unassumingly smooth traits

To please your burnt tastes.

At first, unappealing

This stone leaves the mind reeling

Until she’s all you are feeling,

And with her here you are healing.

 

The rose wilts and she sneers,

Not at all what she appeared

Though her head will be reared

Again in new years.

Taking, grabbing, pricking,

And again to wilt

Each cycle with less gilt

Until she is just silt.

 

The quiet calm stone,

Though once alone,

Has its reward and its throne;

Into rock was fate sewn.

 

The flower captures,

But just for a spring;

It is always the stone

That will end up winning.

Author's Note

Inspired by a night I spent at a club.

Reviews

[.shalynn.009.]

I love the extended metaphor of this. Clubs are all about sex. That's it. Nothing else. Just hooking up. Roses are pretty, but it's the stones that hold steady. They will last. A rose will prick and die. (Take the sexual connotations of that as far as you want.) So many people our age want to carnal feeling of meaningless sex. As for me, I'll take the immovable, meaningful stone, something that can weather all seasons.

[Calypso]

I don't see this as a club (which I've been to), I see this maybe being set in a graveyard.
Nice and eerie, just how I like it.