In the Bountiful Garden of Roses

In the bountiful garden of roses,
Amongst millions I am but one.
This pleasing flower reposes
And seeks sanctity in the Sun.

Of all roses here past and present,
Though pleasing, I'm not the most pleasant.

From seedling I grew up quite wild
And prayed for a soul who would tend
To this bush that had been reviled
And only Love could mend.

Many have strolled down the walk,
Their passing was so hard to bear.
Even fewer did stop to talk
And taunt me with promise of care.

Of all roses here past and present,
Though pleasing, I'm not the most pleasant.

Shower me one did with tears;
So bitter was that water
Of insecurities and fears -
To root rot fertile fodder.

Cultivate one tried with word;
Yet vaporous was his sigh,
So vacuous and absurd,
My leaves became brittle and dry.

Of all roses here past and present,
Though pleasing, I'm not the most pleasant.

The last thought I'd thrive on attention:
Though fickle and prone to wander,
He distributed freely his affection
On all floras he did ponder.

How do I grow when he stares
And browses through plants so new,
So vibrant, alluring and fair,
Not even kissed by morning dew?

Of all roses here past and present,
Though pleasing, I'm not the most pleasant.

Each word, spoken and unspoken,
Bleeds the sap of Will
Until my heart is broken
And I am very ill.

Each action, done and undone,
Hacks the stems of Identity
Until I lose all I've won
To fend off invisibility.

Of all roses here past and present,
Though pleasing, I'm not the most pleasant.

Such harsh pruning will thicken the thorn,
No blooms will ever be seen,
No place for buds to ever form,
I have become incredibly green.

Each time he wanders the bed,
And comments on what he did see,
Even if quietly in his head,
I still know he's not thinking of me.

Of all roses here past and present,
Though pleasing, I'm not the most pleasant.

He is a Sun with meandering sight,
Upon me his rays might fall,
But the entire garden receives his light,
I wither in the shadow of all.

My petals, like tears, fall to ground,
He curses me under his breath.
"To me," he cries, "You are bound!"
Then buries it all in the depth.

"Mine!" defines his devotion.
And that's supposed to heal?
Indifference displayed emotion.
I'm reminded, again, how to feel:

Of all roses here past and present,
Though pleasing, I'm not the most pleasant.

 

-T. Kluey Sept. 2000-