Poetry

The one who owns the rose (draft)

The sliding shriek of cutlery on fine bone china,

a cup falling down to chip on the hard stone.

Its pattern is ruined, but who cares?

It’s just a cup.

 

The ticking of a clock on the mantelpiece

gathering dust until the particles clog its inner workings.

They grind to a halt, but who cares?

It’s just a clock.

 

The candelabra placed on a table set for one,

its elegant white candles unburnt and dry.

Its golden finish is tarnished, but who cares?

It’s just a candelabra.

 

The rose, cut so long ago from its bush,

each year its waxy, ruby petals fade even more.

They fall one by one, but who cares?

He does.

 

And now he panics.

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