social lows

social codes for a wilting rose
taught me the
value
of
thorns,

watching her reborn
a radical.

petals of her warmth
spread about the garden
carcinogens
claimed

(beautiful
in all but name)

horns before heartbreak
in her eyes
and flaws
they tried to make
sing loudest

unbound.

her voice resounds like
windblown daisies,
the power of one
thousand maybes,

the
ever changing certainty
of social lows into
a sequence of
notes,

that broke the
night and
spoke

of being handed ropes and
expected nooses by
hangmen whom probably couldn’t
tie one
themselves.

I can sing of love
without being bitter
for I’ve felt both its
lavender touch and
lawless
paintbrush
guide me through long
winters of discontent.

And you were there
to make sure I was bent,
broken at
the stem,

yet I’m not
the one speaking with
dead flowers.

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