Serrated Roses
Our lives could forever be a joke,
we fragment at the scent of perfume
In a toast to the waxing moon,
we can drink to the waning good times
Too old to breathe life into the party,
too young to accept the air in our lungs
Deflate, separate,
seldom congregate
There was revelry when we drank
We could be a haunt at the bar,
simply drinking to forget,
straying only so far
Forgetting bygone friends
forgetting the deserters
forgetting lives the back-roads claim
forgetting our dreams
Life has us by the balls
our queen narcissists,
playing mantis
Our roses are serrated
knotting fingers,
cannibal clingers
Consuming ritual, courtship dance,
What is the fucking difference?
