Andrew Gostlin

Blood on Roses

Languid, I look for a lyric subtler, at least,

Than blood on roses.  A Montresor’s mask of my own making.

Ambitious, I sit and sip slow poison,

The world at one fingertip. With the other I reach for my nose.

Ecstatic, my sullen soul ensnared.  I stare

At blood on roses.    Inventing ingenious excuses for my idiocies.

Audacious, I write the words I want; a whim

Without regard for worth, a pretty red splat from my nose.

Sanguine, my corpulent cheeks mock, in color,

My blood on roses.  The mutinous mirror makes the mock my own.

Distraught, I turn from my troubled tears, and tell

Whoever is not listening, that I don’t really care about my bloody rose.