that grow profusely on vines
the ones that recite each verse
as if they've re-hearsed every line
it's not their lack of luster
or their delicate charm
that guide them through the winter
and shield them from frostbitten harm
they hide behind latent masks
Live a secret life no one can see
silently waiting to flee the confines
of their double identity
some part of them still wonders
if they'll land among Love's glorious shore
finally freed from the turbulent waters
and Poseidon's unearthly roar
and sometimes the dulcet tunes of a Lyre
weave a golden melody
so no one ever stops to listen
to its dissonant harmony
their petals drift far from the truth
and their stories are fraught with dishonesty
and though i hate every one of these roses
the inescapable part is one of them
is me
Spilled Ink 