The sidewalk.
A concrete treadmill.
Slab. Then seam. Slab. Then seam. Slab.
Spilled wine? No.
Discarded roses.
Capillaries sip burgundy.
Passion pulses.
Creeps up veins. Infuses arteries.
Long-stemmed beauty incarnate.
Vision blossoms within the bloom.
Buds tossed onto the sidewalk.
Love unfurls.
Wine-washed lips. Then hips.
Soft. Like showered skin.
But these petals aren’t soft.
Eden’s garlands lie dead.
Flower as old as time;
Timeless flower bound within time.
The flower made and bouquet-ed
To symbolize passion,
Passion that burns, eternal,
Lies plucked.
Ravaged. Raped.
Forsaken on the stone. Love on the concrete.
Preserved mummy of a flower.
A delicate afterlife.
Pulverized. Ground up by passing feet.
Mortar and pestle.
But no apothecary. No cure.
Just crushed petals.
