Roses and Thorns

Where do the angels in the cemetery lie?
Street obituaries, and street angels, by and by
Close the door to the concrete, and say goodbye
In a hot bed of cold flesh, wrapped around stained silk
And the intertwining perspired droplets of rain
And flesh exploded and settled with the scent of milk
Desert roses shall grow and cactuses shall prick
The taste of honey like agave with those lips to lick
Oh girl of scorn, who curses the roses without thorns
By and by, in those motorcycle boots and black jeans
The pretty prom girls walk by, getting on the sly
Their pills, their thrills, their rubber lovers denied
All sensuality, the gift of surrendering
Into the abandon of forbidden arms
Arms of a muscular man, skin like satin, dark-eyed,
With a stunning complexion, buck wild and little introspection
Silent still in the rising of the moon before the edge of morn
And soon the sun shall rise to give birth to blossom, roses and thorns.

Posted in Poetry

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