black rose

I.

She wore her disdain
like a Victorian brooch,
cat-eyes set in lustrous jet,

ruby nails rubbing chapped lips
as the blackness rose
in her throat and threatened to exit.

A delicate hand smoothed
greying temples as I waited
for her to speak words
that never came.

She glared at the dark flower
on the coffee table,
envious of its ability to live
beyond the vine.

II.

The petals wilted quickly,
deepest garnet pooled
around a crystal vase
containing brackish water
and a lonely, lifeless stem.

I pressed them, one by one,
in her diary and packed it away
with the rest of her things.

 

Copyright © 2012 by Christopher Chaffin – All rights reserved

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About cjchaffin

Wordsmithing is my passion. I eat, sleep, and breathe words and phrases, only to regurgitate them and pray that they are better off than when I first ingested them.
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