flat black rose bushes.
times thought back on, just short of
reminiscent.
flat black smiles
seen, but undistinguished
lit only by the lost idea of a kiss.
returned to life's rolling chair, stable when
your feet are planted, firmly grounded.
spinning in all the wrong directions, unchecked
with lifted feet and attempted control.
the rain won't come, even with the sun
on strike and the moon, it's scab, only
big as the marble shooter.
flat black rose bushes.
petals never rotten, odor wades among
thorns, ducking in and through.
smells like it could be forever.