"The Final Rose"
Today is Friday
the vents in the windows
let out a little air
gaping wound
as veiled eyes watch
the drama of the exploited and the wicked
somewhere caught in the fringe
between now, forever, and never
the dance, painfully slow
eyes shift nervously about the room
someone steps up and recites
a slurred masterpiece
of a long overdue diatribe
she speaks slowly to her stalker
in dulcet tones and batted eyes
she gets up carefully, the red silk
of her dress glittering
in the subdued light
she gestures knowingly
and leaves without a word
content in the fact
that, no matter what happens, the man
the same man she yearned for
all those years ago
will never find the will
to ever let her go
a single rose tinged
with bittersweet tears
on his frayed, taunt death mask.
Copyright: 2009, by Raymund Diaz Delizo
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