Author Information
Charred Rose
She sits cross legged on an unmade bed
Images of past lovers adorn the dusty bedside table
Angels porcelain and china, different expressions sigh at her,
A chubby baby grins right back from a crumpled aged photograph on the night stand
Magazines unfurl and yesterdays tabloid headlines
disappear beneath the clutter
Of unwashed plates and the odd unmatched sock
A champagne flute chipped and aged rests in her leathern hand
The bubbles in the brew remind her of a place more grand
She drank pink champagne, the french stuff now cider rots her brain.
A ciggerette rests between her fingertips she pauses occasionally to take a breathe in
before disappearing back into the nicotin haven
The ash grows long burnt ember drops and unseen finds the pile of history wrapped in a shoe box
The drink forces her eyes to drop a last tear splashes her cheek
They found her later still clutching a blackened charred rose.
like the poem..very interesting and deep.
Visions of emptiness haunt this piece like the dreams held sacred of some glorious in not illusionary past.
The sadness lies in the emptiness so magnificently depicted and in my wondering if they who found her ever really understood what all the things meant. ~Tim