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The Iris In Pain
Sad and pure, a lovelorn flower
Floating on some grey shifting hills
Plucked from its home,
cast away to die in these deep blue fields.
The petals we pick twist down,
like a gyroscope,
a silent humming, spiraling sound.
"I love you, I love you not,"
till the iris is bare and ashamed
whatever phrase I last land on
you will still call me by our lover's name.
(This is the problem with pain.)
After I've finished this murder, this deed
I'm done with you, you can leave.
Even when veterans are mistaken
Their phantom limbs are forsaken,
Like a lost note in a song,
Bandages replace what has, is gone.
So too does my wilted flower
Drift away wishing for arms to swim.
