Lament

The onyx rose of ritual awaits the gathering night. Too often the almond sun slides slowly down the buttered sky. We know it is close, this day when snakes fly-- a prophecy of poinsetta's red rending our lover's eyes. These scars like granite streaks marbled in freshly ground steak soak up the pink reality of choice growing by the front door, a lilac of love's last coliander.