Scar on the Cheek
The kiss on the cheek
planted swift, turns
to thorny scratch, burns
long and thin, drips
red on black dirt.
Fragile petals live a breath
away, a thin vein from death.
Roses keep distant,
far from drawn swords
ready to impale petal-skin.
Repent and attempt
to pluck stems of
delicate short-lived beauty,
for arrangements in a vase,
that fragrance may erase
the scent of love’s demise.
But watch when red drips:
seeds bloom anew,
emit ethereal perfume, transform
into wild, vibrant, hybrid,
blood-red rose. Are you a rose?
Are you a thorn?
Or one scratched by scorn
of deceiver’s kiss?
Show me your scar.
© prasanta 7/20/2011
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