by Michael Plante

She sleeps in metaphors of dying light
blind to the colours that forces the night.
Dreaming of my arrival she awaits
as metaphors fall from the evening sky.
Like shooting stars they disappear
into oblivion where lovers transform them
from star dust to roses of the night.

I understand her position
her only request is my attention.
She thrives in melodic sensations
seducing me into a dance;
offering me reason
to survive another day.

What am I to her, or she to me?
Co-dependent we are;
clutching each other in the darkness
holding our breath until daylight returns
or until we finally die.

I’d take a rose from her
and hold it against my chest.
I’d call to her as she plays coy
tempting heart’s desire.
Love is blind, and so are we
for nothing exists but the petals of the bloom
and the reward of death.

Let the wind speak of our love
from beyond our grave
in metaphors of dying light
and colorless petals that fall from the sky.

Image of a black rose from Freepix
used without permission.