The Red Rose Lives. . .

Oh, to taste the nectar of the red rose
once again,
to dream patiently in the blank verse fields
among the blossoming love lies bleeding,
to have those dreams also blossom,
and never fade
like the lovely flower of their origin. . .

To stand inside those dreams of wonder,
responding in rhythm to the gently waving petals,
answering the unspoken melody that beckons,
to catch the echo of love that's calling,
and capture gracefully
the pervasive spirit of its sender.
The red rose lives,
and my love lies bleeding. . .

Oh, to have a garden of those flowers. . .
with their exhilarating powers,
to be exiled there for hours.
The red rose lives,
and my love lies bleeding.

To feel the silent flow of warm wind
caressing gently tender places,
to gesture calmly with heart unroving
of sentiment yet unimagined. . .
to spend in bliss all passing hours
never speaking words best left unspoken.

Oh, to lie in the unfilled cavity
of love's container,
and drain those pure, exotic flowers
of their nectar unmolested. . .
to free from their useless prison
those thoughts unjustly left
self-imprisoned.

Oh, to once again of the red rose taste,
and dream no more. . .
The red rose lives,
and my love lies bleeding.