the men who murdered the heart of the rose (poem)


the men who murdered the heart of the rose


began with the father my mother chose

he was a man who could never be found

just like the second father who was never around

the boy at five who said let’s show our parts

the boy at eight who reached for her petals

the boys who began at thirteen for the reaching

the men at fourteen with the constant screeching

the boy at fifteen with the snakes on his ring

(Her constant long search for a chivalrous king)

the man at sixteen who tried parting her lips

the man at seventeen with the wonderful kiss

the man at nineteen with an actual deflowering

who claimed he was in love, but his anger was devouring

that man at nineteen threw her down a stair

and she miscarried the baby that was growing there

(the rose began to develop her thorns, one for each wound, each lie, things torn)

the man at twenty one and the series of chances

when love might have flowered through all of the dances

the man at twenty two when she fell deeply in love

who raped her with his camera, when she was a dove

she saved all his roses till they ended in dust

she realized his feelings were lies she couldn’t trust

the man at twenty three who wanted marriage like a bond

the two she deflowered to keep them from harm

(on her own little balcony she potted bareroots)

married men during college and their constant pursuits

(she grew her own flowers, she tended the roots)

the man that came calling and begged her to wed

once left hundreds of roses in her little bed

the cottage they bought that was surely for children

killed all of her dreams as he wasn’t beholden

her roses grew thick and untamed on the land

their petals were stronger than the ring on her hand

her search for a prince had been wildly in vain

until a humble man entered her garden again

his kindness stripped thorns that had hardened to hatred

she blossomed forever under the gentling of hands

love letters are the gifts between roses in gardens

their fragrances pure as the new dawn of day

(her petals were formed into thousands of stories)

each leaf a page of the newest unfurlings

a king had not come yet from the legions of men

and the garden was lonely in a wintry season

she’ll fly like a bird from the roses of old

and plant many new bareroots, braving the cold

the men that thought they could murder the rose?

had another thing coming, for her petals were prose.





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