Menacing atrophied roses stand
bent as a manic's mind,
black thorns reaching for delicate skin
to prick the flesh,
and release the wine.
Masked sunlight glitters dully through stained water
in the belly of the reminiscent mason jar.
Fibrous frayed stems,
bloated slightly,
taint the well.
Colorless petals turn to ash,
When touched by desperation,
seeking near-lost memories,
by texture of the dead.
The power of time,
Is that it is timeless and unyielding.
The sun is born and brilliantly dies,
Even the darkest night becomes the day.
And what my fist did,
in the blind power of anger,
will never pass.
It will remain,
As will my delusions of humanity.
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