Black Roses

A thought in a core
reverberates in the early
hours of the February dawn.

It narrates through the
remaining silver highlights
of the full moon.

A framed black roses
is hanging undeserved on
the wall.

Neither we crack
jokes at a funeral, nor
nudge an elbow at weddings.

The echo is intended
to shift from one place
to the rest.

We are swept away.
Our own faults are not
better than your transgressions.



About chester maynes

poet, and a lover of music and books.
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