He sieves the sunlight through his fingers,
A questioning glance, a silent murmur, a lingering touch,
Greed, love, lust?
-why take all this pain?
Say, “Love is a rose”,
Can’t blossom on its own.
Bask in gold, sway in the rain;
albeit, pricks you when its grown.
She’s a wildflower;
a dandelion, a weed.
Unwanted; but pleasing to look at,
unaware of her roots- pays no heed.
His eyes trail back to his own,
by their every word.
Eyes downcast, stumbling feet,
-utterly incapable of being loved.
“It’s money,” they speculate,
For love is in beauty, love is in pain;
for passion to ignite,
and it has burning flames.
But time ticks away,
and they frail;
- them roses.
And they twist and turn,
- under the trials the wind imposes.
The mirrors, they shatter;
When creases mark her skin,
and he grasps his hands around a cane;
Love isn’t beauty, only pain,
now only a bane.
- Every flame drenches,
in moments of rain.