Hating roses is
a passion fate,
a habit like
throwing out
chocolate without cherries
You were a healer
nursed the saved
rose above the battle
fire for awhile,
soothed the singed,
cauterized
I look for the
squiggle code on the chocolate:
it tells me which to save
which pure chocolate must go
For good luck
I gave you a rose
and a promise
for hot chocolate
Roses are red
I’ve heard, but
haven’t seen them
anymore;
hold your ghostly fire
I wrap all red cherries
in chocolate squiggles
never to giggle again,
to love roses wilted
Poetry and Stuff 