Blank Verse, Iambic pentameter, hot, humid, sufferin' succotash it's sultry.
Oh, God, spare me the bloodied, thorny, rose call it naught by the color of its shame promises of loves unending future masking the silent scent of love’s demise. Glory not the crimson of its passing nor weep as crying petals hit the floor hold tight to thorn stung stem - a bloodied lust at rest upon the stillness of her breast. Oh, God, spare me the sodden, teardrop rose too late the touch of kindness comes again to kiss the dwindled cheek – a faded passion a coldness that defiles the touch of death. Oh God, forgive the rose its indiscretions for beauty is the bauble of the weak. ©8/6/2018 for Brian Strand - August 2018 Premiere poetry contest
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