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Second-hand Roses

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By WaldoPublished 2 years ago 1 min read
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Second-hand Roses
Photo by Silvestri Matteo on Unsplash

Basking in the essence of second-hand roses.

Rescued from the refuse

Of an unforgiving lover.

Home now--

On the chipped enamel table

In this ask-no-questions motel room.

A murdered flush of nature

Does its death dance here.

And I dance too.

If I close my eyes

And cover my ears,

I can smell their heady perfume

Beyond the cigarette smoke and dope sweat.

Impossibly delicate petals

As soft as the skin I used to have.

Nestled in the cardinal fold of the blossom,

I’m safe from the man who hurls

obscenities while undoing his belt buckle.

Counting the

25,

26,

27 thorns on one shiny stem,

I stay in the vase with the roses

And not in the room with him.

For a while, I have a dozen friends.

Long-stemmed confidants

Who empathize while I wilt.

But friends don’t stay.

We whither and fade.

The roses and I.

Caving in on ourselves.

As the last petal falls from my borrowed blooms.

Hope takes a bow

and exits the room.

sad poetry
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About the Creator

Waldo

Just a random human trying to remember that I used to love to write.

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