These are not roses,
These are pain.
Blind, lucid, anxiety.
Uncompromising disappointment.
These are pure grief.

And if you bring yourself
close, the scent,
so sublime, will possess you,
obsess you.
Like the first breath
after choking –
And so it will burn.

These are not a gift, but
A forced contract
Between past and future – and
This?
This is the knowledge that
Flowers, such as these
Will soon wilt.

Bryson Thomas