Rose bud’s death, shrivelling up
Leaves curl like burning paper –
When you left I could feel nothing.
No symbolic snow fell like winter
Fresh gardens always rot – slowly
The burnt out cabbage of old homes.
Silences fill gaps where silence threatens
Your face fills no voids, empty laughing
In hallways is not a metaphor.
You sold a soul without its wanting
You stole it to renew yourself
But roses will always smell of winter
As they die upon your bedroom shelf.
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