five choc'late-colored roses in her hand
red ribbon curled from fingers [oh, so pale]
the paint and ink stained floorboards where she'd stand
for hours, contemplating if she'd failed (....?)

the roses turned to brushes while she slept
[ for they were once the color of her eyes ]
the tears she'd cried, beneath the rug had swept;
but stood fast to an awkward compromise

she painted on the walls and on the floor
she drew out all the things that once, she'd feared;
she left the five dead roses in the door
and walked away until she disappeared.

the house still stands; the sun drips through the panes;
the roses only dead
until it rains.

02/17/2002

Posted on 02/17/2002
Copyright © 2024 Brynn Dizack