The Bright Red of a Rosebud
Calling…calling who…
Rose…Rose…Rose…
Does the name belong to her, the one I still finger the touch of her lips upon mine
Does the lonely picture in my pocket portray her, the one I keep resting in my wallet
The one my lips touch everyday in a small instant
Rose…her name drives the very strength out of me
Leaving me pale stricken, glossy eyed
In a moment filled eclipse of irrelevant static
The static mimicking the sound of a thousand buzzing flies
Slowly encompassing me in deliberate darkness
Rose…what is the reason I know of you
Rose…what is the reason to why I cannot forget to remember you
Rose…so bittersweet like the first taste of a grapefruit
Rose…lonely Rose
I find myself curled up in a tiny ball contained with fearful dismay
My knees hugging my chest in distress, in panic, in disgust, in shame
Am I honestly the one to blame; a sharp pain to receive from guilt
Is this what it feels like to be cut with a knife or am I the one
The one who has forgotten the blood stained tub
The bright red of a rosebud
I really never knew her name
I just know the scream and dead silence of silent agony
And being unable to save…
Rose…oh Rose…Rose…
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