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Hate Pink
Loins pink as Carnations,
now the color of a squall frenzy
day. Rising from this storm,
a memorial whore who turned
your feverish sex into ashes,
handing you a black rose that pricks
your groin and bleeds the music
from your soul. Her body now gone,
you lay quiet beneath a rock
with the solitude, loneliness
and frigid cold of rumored
conversations; left naked, sweating
frost in front of nerve-jangling gales
as if you just finished making love
to a glacial witch. She laughs
until teardrops flutter away
like butterflies dropping dead
on the snow, tiny silhouettes of life
that once were - exhale one last
breath… for dreams and desires
abandoned in the icy land of lost
promises, where flowers wilt,
couples have no children,
and death is the only obsession
that will forever be born.
