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Charred Rose 2
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
yesterdays tabloid headlines
disappear beneath the clutter
Of unwashed plates
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
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.
© Gabrielle M
The effect is the same, though I think I more prefer the first. Still, it offers the heart a singular grief that I know I would have been powerless to change. ~Tim