A rose of pink and white, plucked from it’s stem…


Again they showed me a beautiful white feather… a message is coming… or has it already come?

A curling iron jumped out of my hand, as I prepared for the day and with coffee in hand, read a poem about a rose.  “A rose, is a rose, is a rose… unless it’s you!”

A rose of pink and white, plucked from it’s stem and  multiplied four hundred fold to form  the outline of a grave…could it have been hers– the lovely Maiden’s– or yours?

‘Tis 12 days since last she spoke.

Silently in black, she lays upon the rock- forever waiting for your hand to throttle.

What is that about her neck?  The weight of your collective deeds… caught in a barrel, locked in a drum?

She sends you greetings…but where to send your fan mail? I asked, but you were so angry…the freckled face one did her best to get me the information I needed and I thanked her from where I stood, but still you cried afoul. Or was it… a fowl?

So angry you were crossed…so crossed you saw red…. so red you saw pink.

What it is the number now?  Twenty-seven you say?

Nay, “Can it be so ?” the masses whisper, in adoring disbelief.

Ahhhh… but the eyes have it right! “Twenty- seven and not a day more,” they scream… having counted out each day since! They too thought so much more time had passed and yet in the blink of an eye, while the other remains closed…they wished you well on your journey to the sun.

Nothing lasts forever they say…not love, not hatred, not envy…not even a legacy.

You stand at the crossroads and sigh, beside them. This is not at all what you expected? Nothing but the inside of an endless circle! What? No angels…no paradise… no one to comfort me?

Rest not on your laurels, nor your haunches you son-of-a-bitch, for I am on your trail(s) and carry with me the strength of those you murdered!

My secrets are buried, you say. Where, I might ask? Under a meadow… a grove…an open field…a broken tree or a craggy shoreline beside the sea?

Your silence is duly noted…cat got your tongue? Your familiar?

Your insolence cuts me to the core…but you like it that way. Neat and clean from stem to stern.

What’s that your victim’s say?  “Quote the raven–nevermore–for only the owl and the falcon truly know.”

So I asked them once again…are his secrets buried for all times?

And the falcon closed his beak, with bated breath… but the owl the pussycat remanded, as the cow jumped over tonight’s full moon…

“They are buried under pretty pictures, pretty words, pretty letters and sacred geometry. Just not far enough…just not far enough!”

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