The Pulse

The pulse - its final whisper

For life it died.

It’s beating but a hinder,

For the needing soul to hide.

But hiding is dying,

Some have found,

For the lackluster life,

Lacked living,

Some say,

Is better than the life-lost lived.

Yet.

What life refrained of life

has lived to speak the lies of death?
As lies they stand

to dead ears of beating pulse,

That taste such deceit to sweeten

the sour left of death’s memory.

Said thought purely stands

As pain.

A thorn of the rose,

Bled black thick by petal,

The dew bloody upon the stem,

Swallowing the beauty of life,

Through that fear of stilled pulse.

Still.

Frost that finds that rose,

Luminescent of the night

Falls down with frozen starlight.

Single rays refracted,

Thousand beams reacted

To the black heights

Of that rose of life.

 Beating of the heart resumes,

Fear of life nearly consumes -

Held back at once by light.

Now the flame to rose ignite

The soul without silence to hide

Into the night with life it cries

Freed from the black outlasting dew

To cool the flames with tears anew.

The rose stands gasping breathes full,

Fierce beating, no longer still

The hearts still bleeding

But will in time heal with

Pulse.

Author's Note

Wrote this in two sit down segments. Had to get in the same frame of mind for the second time, which required about 10 minutes of intense concentration to try to understand what the hell I was talking about again in the first place... anyway, Haven't written anything for a while, so... ya. Here it is.