all of the roses in my room are dry.
why is that?
all of these petals falling harshly
like autumn too soon
my room will fill with the
amorous dropping of dried-up beautiful things
and i will gasp, unready, waiting to
see what it smells like when i finally go under
give me your leaden shoes
i will fill them with soil and grow
peonies, mountain laurels and roots
i will not try to grow roses. they
never seem to listen.
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