she wants to shine like a supernova, baby. she wants to be your supernova.

an August Rose my darling, is strange. she's not spun in euphoric glee
like miss June's daffodils in the height of the golden haze, nor the
unbridled passion that mr. July envelops life in.

there is no rubber trampling upon her back when lady Grass of
Sept.em.ber (fiery embers of discontent glow) peaks through
the crumbling crust of this red-hot sphere.

she stands somewhere between the fire of air and the water of earth. she is
the twilight, the ribbons of pale purple and rusty red-orange
that melt into the falling west in indiscriminant blurs.

the descent fades to black and miss August Rose in dewdropped sepals
watches. she listens to the melodic pulse of O.ri.on and marvels
at the swirl his explosion engraved into eternity.

August Rose can't boast of such time whirling feats and she shivers. she
sees time as an unforgiving tidal wave that will swallow her presence
unless a scar is left upon its frothy head.

yet time will teach her the greatest lesson:
she is an August Rose and that is enough.

11/02/2000

Posted on 07/04/2007
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