Blooming Poem by Michael Roysdon

A rose sleeps in a shallow meadow,
the wind raising and falling on its collective,
nurturing nature, and slowing staining it's beauty.
This criminal urgency tearing the slow breathing petals away.

When the sun raises on the following morning,
the crypt has been set, and is soon to be filled.
A sad parody of life is being performed by a minor crowd,
following a slow moving procession, in a slow-walk motion.

Faces, pale, empty, a wilted depiction of a formilly proud,
noble society that fed the missed with love and affection.
The line stops as suddenly as it began and feeds through an arch.
The dirge soon reaches the skies, and settles on the horizon.

The rose from before is plucked from its shelter, and brought
to the frantic crowd with salted cheeks and stained hands.
The rose's course ended before it could truly taste the pleasures:
A humming bird's song, and a bee's nectar....

As the rose is settled on a descending platform, earth
is taking the stage to the left and right of the rose.
Soon crystalline spheres cover the ever darkening sky,
and the light recedes behind them...

The rose no longer has its chance at life
because it was plucked prematurely,
and used to satisfy those who still have a chance,
and remind them of a fate they will share....


To Joe, a loving family friend, and an influence on my life.... R.I.P. We will all miss you....