When love fails, it is not love. It flickers fickle cruelty,
as the bird with expanded wings, is unable to use the wind,
as an ocean without its waves, cannot release a tide to carry it in.
When a heart breaks, to expose the center, the stalwart of being,
a spark flashes from a black sink hole, to embrace the collapse.
Faint progression no longer stalls between loving again and its toll.
Can we ever walk away? Is it always resolution by death?
It always seems to be the way. Like stepping on the ant,
like squashing the spider, like cutting the rose to fit the vase.
I sit here mounted, surrounded by crystal,
Barely seen, through the light between closed curtains.
Once all charged with life, cleaned and polished,
now, dust about an “inch thick”, begs to be wiped;
to reveal the history of wet crystal rings, that became permanently sealed
during many transitions. Some, quickly wiped, other just forgotten.
Excitement, dis-appointment, laughter, and silence.
I wait here with the vase, in the scent of a drying rose.
My possessions are accomplished and their appeal ceases.
Their use, merrily leads me to another, then another.
I suppose if I rented them ( use them temporarily ),
my intentions would not be committed to its need.
Both require some exchange, price, for those transactions.
That leaves me with a feeling of “lost” for a “gain”.
( Often lasting longer than the possession;
even those that belong to Caesar).
There is nothing to purchase in development and growth
in the center of the heart or in the center of the rose;
should there be, with ignorance,
the cost is refunded through regret and without repetition.