[five] - Of Roses In A Decaying Memory Poem by Spell Shifter

I never really liked picking roses,
or any flower for that matter.

Once, I was told I was a stranger
to the word romantic,
because I had never had the thoughtful
'consideration' of giving out flowers.

Murderous = romantic: I thought.
As it turns out, it wasn't all wrong.

The day after this experience,
I woke up with a bitter taste in my mouth:
in a dream (nightmare) ,
a hand had reached over,
and took, from one of the most colorful gardens,
a rose no eye had ever seen before
(it sounds much like a cliché I know,
but I don't lie when I write it so) .
It wasn't all bad,
until I saw who the hand belonged to:
Yes. It had been one of my hands:
that murderous perpetrator.
A bitter taste in my mouth
that went away under a layer of toothpaste,
and some scolding morning coffee.

Killing roses (and picking pretty yellow flowers)
has become easier since.
All in the name of love:
The bitter taste comes and goes,
but I don't mind it anymore.