roses of red

Fire of the windswept
it comes too hot too hard
cut my heart with razors
and tell me
where has it has all gone to.

hot and dry
like the windy vice
and in it red
roses fall
petals strewn
to the wind
distributed among
those who don?t care
and those who do
cannot catch a
flower petal
that they may live
instead of fading
into the winds
and then the sands
of the hourglass

over and over
the view catches my eye
the view that cannot be
touched and
oh how
I yearn to
touch the fire
but it will
burn and bring me
to life
which is
more than I am
and less than I was
but it is my desire and
my blood
pattering like rain
upon the asphalt
of the end of time.

now I see
bloody roses upon my pillow
greet a too willing frame.
coldness eternal
seeps
like withered flowers
in a press
like pain
like pleasure
the scent of blood...
or is it flowers...
is strong and will cut my senses
like rain upon my paper life.