A Little Red Rose Dying

A little red rose dying hangs,
fastened to the curtain with an ordinary safety pin
and the dark red petals let life slip out into the suffocating air
and the stem is firm
with a tiny drop of blood protruding from where the pin pierced it through
and the limp leaves cover the bud like a light blanket in fall
and they gasp for breath before succumbing to exhaustion
and all color seems to drip invisibly from the rose like a painting shedding its hews.
The curtain vast and billowy like the ocean during a storm,
engulfs the window frame and the striped pattern tumbles down the wall,
it is a waterfall crashing abruptly into the floor
and it laps at the carpet with a thirst that cannot be quenched
and the rose dangles dangerously above on cliff tops
just waiting to fall should the safety pin fail
and the fibers of the carpet, like furry worms stand erect
and gnaw at the edge of the curtain, holding it securely in place
and in the deep recesses of the crimson cave the shadows touch,
fondling each other with wispy fingertips, appearing and disappearing
depending on how the light hits them
and the petals grip the stem to bestow one last kiss of life
and the young flower topples down, down, down
ripped from the pin
and the bud bounces softly, once on the sea of carpet
it is a feathery pillow softening the fall
but the blood of the rose forms a puddle beneath it
and it runs deep into the carpet, soaking it
and the petals are now a grey ash
they choke out the green of the stem and leaves,
with gritty sand, scratching at the throat
and the dust settles all dried out yet drinking greedily at the life slipping away
like grass slurping the morning dew after a draught
I see a ghost of the rosebud lying there
like smoke rising from a chimney
and the heat makes the trees dance, even when they are sad
and it blinds me and makes me see things behind foggy glass
but as I look into the pooling liquid
slowly seeping out of the little red rose dying
vacantly staring back at me,
I see my lover’s face