A Biting Rose

By Inklin   

Time can paint pictures, open eyelids, prove or disprove theories.

Most nights I'm left wandering how I can mold myself into form as he needs.

I ask myself why I can't be compatible -
when, in the beginning - he said I was his everything.
He swore I was a matriarch, a goddess_
The only thing he needed or wanted.

I wander silently, if he was drunk or blindfolded when he spoke those loving words to me.

So, maybe I'm a thistle, that thing most want to avoid, too attached to my roots,

My spine - too inflexible.
Maybe I'm like the wind, sometimes wanting freedom to move happily, to tarry in the way I desire.

But - sometimes - I'm a genie.
I grant wishes for others.
And it seems better than knowing no wishes will be granted at all.

I believe too many people
like to see flowers but despise gardening.
The tasks is too troublesome, time consuming, too burdensome.

So maybe I'm a crumbling rose, needing attention, but left
to wither because a thorn is too sharp.
But it seems there's always time to cut me down.

Maybe, I don't know what I am or what I can be. At the end of the day the one I love questions, maybe doubts because I'm not the average timber he is used to.

And in his eyes being surrounded by hardwood is better than gardening.

So I can only marvel, hoping I can learn to be more like him, while feeling content as the thorny flower that bites.

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This Poems Story

Based on that feeling of loneliness just before divorce.