I bring lillies,
I know how deeply,
she hated roses -
their aromatic allure,
a facade, a pretense.
Bitter from years
of timely delivered bouquets,
each an offering,
she learned to loathe.
Roses that stung
with thorns of deceit,
seductively situated -
gift of the guilty.
I bring lillies,
subtly sensuous, stalwart stalks,
pale, satin perfection,
like her sleeping complexion.
Laying each blossom
to soften her scowl,
caress her acquiesed soul
in loyal linen white.
She hated roses.
Shirley Harshenin
(C) 2001, July 7
All Rights Reserved
Fucking perfect. Excuse the language. It's awesome, really great *claps*
Joe~
TIGHT ONE
This is excellent!