Disassembled Rose

There grows beneath the rotting bridge

a crushed and lonely flower,

who drips with pain cold crimson blood;

this leak consumes his power.

A piercing wind tears at his soul,

stars from their distance taunt.

This musty tomb of misplaced hope

shall always be his haunt.

He blends into the background grey

and melts into the ground.

He cannot move, he cannot speak,

and yet his heart does pound.

Behind his eyes the spirits dance

and beckon memories.

His lips bear harsh lies raw revealed,

As he trembles with the breeze.

Never has such grief before

torn petals sad as those,

that weep beneath the bridge so dark:

the disassembled rose.

Such petals sad as those,

still weep beneath the bridge so dark:

the disassembled rose.

Jennifer Burnside