Roses Red and Violet Blues

We rose above the ashes of distortion,
Piled high with countability ignored,
Planting seeds to bloom with rose-red call,
While Sedulously, we waited for a reprise
Of those forgotten days, wasted away,
The chosen wager of unrestrained youth,
Counted minutes, clumsy hours,
Those first days, before assiduousness,

Now we play those tunes again,
The same time, the same space,
We hold the jukebox against the wall
In an ever tightening elaborate embrace,
The facts before the clue, does youth know
Who we are? Days end, transcend,
We ran away with each new derision,
Could it have been little more than stance?

Tethered or not, we pour unchained will,
The only memorial to that fixated thrill,
Riders in a storm, fleeting from a distance,
And finally we have no idea of what else to say,
Each new word comes, flows, then goes away,
Intransigence defeated by graceful debate,
In the wild we bury our namesake,
Roses red and violet blues.


Poem © Phen Weston 2015

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