Thorns prick his arms
as he lifts her from his roses;
blood droplets fall to pale skin.
Fires leap from a pyre,
like tongues crying to heaven.
Flesh burns, and burns, and burns.
Winds swirl her ash, a final
embrace, before he falls
exhausted to the ground.
Why so many masks
to disguise the end
of what was never there?
Oh, Metaphor!
Conceal my desires!
Even from myself.
(October 16, 2016)
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