there was that rose he picked me
off white and pink at the core
much like us,
not perfectly pure, but with raw hearts
slightly stiff yet comfortable,
like your face after a day at the shore,

we are not like the others, he and i-
all of them mannequins, dummies or dolls,
with their immobile expressions
delicate and insincere but so delightful,
statues on a scaffold disguised as a stage
and set before an audience of automatons

these impossibly limber marionettes,
manipulated by the hand behind the Cross
which has so skillfully sewn misguided strings
of false affection
into the fabric of their lives,
that without complete direction they
descend into lifelessness

eventually their painted faces will
crack and boil beneath the stage Apollo lights-
flesh exposed as the sunlight tenderly teases
the crimson burn that never fails to surface-
exposing their raw pink core as petals of skin
fall to the ground below,
love plucked from deep roots,
dead before it hits the ground.

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