As the year closes
I say goodbye to all
The roses
They were not their appearance
Worth
So much young blood
Foolishly spilt
Into the wretchedness of earth
Poets have fed roses
For far too long
The hungry red beasts
Of golden troubadours
The nodding priestess
In the long forgotten garden
What shapes what figures
Have stood charmed
And unarmed
Teaching statues hot tears
And horned Time harshest scorn
Man was not born
For Beauty
But for Beauty’s thorns