fly-by-nite lighthouse

no death comes to me

I wept a tear for an unspoken promise, its thorny stem dying the rose may rest. Scent once made my senses heated caused implosions in my head. Now chance for new life to bloom is deleted. I sniff at new roses but raminfications of the bouquet of death linger in recollection, robbing me of breath. I sink in seas of memory. I plunge my head deep below the waters. No death comes to me. I read a verse. I pierce my skin and in flows a chemical flush. No death comes to me. I see a photograph. I bathe a blade in flame then sink it through my chest. No death comes to me. I make myself a flower out of tinsel and paper- I worship at its knees. No death comes to me. Instead the pseudo-rose springs forth with greenery and poise, begins to ripen in the sunlight of a cracked window. And I, lost in brooding fall silently, sleeping upon the freshly grown thorns and resurrected blooms.

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ALL POETRY COPYRIGHT MB TANKERSLEY 2004

Wrote this one many years ago. Originally it was about a girl I had broken up with, but seeing as how I have forgotten her name by this point that couldn't have been  ALL of what ended up on the page. It is true that many times we do something that might seem silly at the time but somehow works in the long run. Trouble is, by the time they show success we're often long gone. So, there is a raging debate whenever this has popped up in readings as to whether the writer is finally found by death upon his momet of triumph or whether he simply is asleep, the creation of life from nothing having tired him out too much too see his creation shine.. Opinions?