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The Red Roses

by Chessie Hodge (Age: 24)
copyright 02-21-2007


Age Rating: 13 +

Endless fields of red roses. Their delicateness seared by their own despair, turn into ash and flake away into the winds. They scar the sky with their sorrow, making the clouds black with their self-hatred. It rains the blood of their unheard anguish. The shadow consumes the earth and bears bitter-sweetly down. The requiem of the immolated creatures beckoning my soul to come and kiss the heavens, as their very breath stains the earth crimson.

I gaze upward into them, into my reflection, and cry. I reach out to myself and know that there is only nothing. I collapse upon the ground and the mirror of the sky shatters. And the shards of glass, so beautiful as they fall. I let myself slip away into the dripping black velvet veil of darkness.

I can hear your footfalls as you come running out of a cold hollow hell to save me. I feel your arms wrap around my nearly lifeless body and your kiss. I feel your warm tears splash upon my face and one of my own tumbles down my cheek.

The flowers, the flowers, the red rose . . .

“This time, this pain is too deep, even for you.” My gasp echoes into the impending shadow. You hold me closer and I watch myself die in your arms and feel your suicide as you felt mine.



The flowers, the flowers, the crimson rose . . .

The flowers, the flowers, the red . . .

And we dance together in the sky . . .






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Total Reads: 376
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        08-03-2013     Mae Futter Stein        

Chess, I love roses of all colors. Endless fields of red roses is where I would love to sit and write my poems. They could inspire me to no end. Not a place to die. Your story is very different, like a thought of endless death. Roses are meant for love as the rose of Sharon
and peace with God. I hope things change for the better for you. Thank you for sharing.

        04-02-2013     Walter Jones        

eyes fill a memory left over time, heart as cold as the warmth given in a writers soul, so special the gift layed before the audience, every phrase a place to be held forever. Walt



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