i have no use of rose once they've been plucked
their nodding neck and arms unfriendly thorned
and they with stems in jars all firmly tucked
in death their petals droop till unadorned
the baby's breath smells rotted as it waits
the brackish water crowned with death's disease
left to watch the world outside glazed plates
the fingers of the rose have shed their leaves
and bend to pluck the thorn from wounded knees
their nodding neck and arms unfriendly thorned
and they with stems in jars all firmly tucked
in death their petals droop till unadorned
the baby's breath smells rotted as it waits
the brackish water crowned with death's disease
left to watch the world outside glazed plates
the fingers of the rose have shed their leaves
and bend to pluck the thorn from wounded knees