Rose Petals in Vaults

A Boy With Roses

Paradise is lost. There is no going back. No escape from the smoke of our lies, no mirrors bright enough to shine through our facades. We move forward, persistently, trying to catch one glimpse of tomorrow, moving with clocks, through cool blue shades digging into our skin, through endless oceans of time, sparking conversations. We stumble across revelations and do whatever it takes. When we fall down, falling in and out of ourselves, we get back up, prepared, and we do it all over again. We fall into bodies of krypton light, words on the paper of an unfinished book, but we never lose sight of the end. We never lose hope, because we are more than we think we are. We are stars.

We have skies where we fly our planes, and we are never far from our destinations. Catching falling leaves on shores. We get on, even when we are in pain. We never lose our faith that somewhere, out there, someone is waiting for us in a garden decorated with beautiful flowers, because we are nothing if we don't believe it could happen to us. We have waters big enough, where we dive deep enough to find spring creeks. When we go there we look for the lights that guide us, and we pick the apples from the trees of life, not because we are filled with greed, but because we deserve the sweet taste of success, and when we meet on stages and our lips are trembling, we feel forsaken, but we are everything. Overflowing with possibilities. We build our cities from the bones.

We make homes out of the paradise we lost, but we have more to gain. We often forget our tattoos of innocence, and put our secrets in the plummeting temperature of the medulla. When we are ready to accede we bow before kings. We remember all the times when we were fulsome, and we had stuffed noses in autumn. Little things make us smile, and the smiles are priceless gifts, abiding. We make eye contact with symptoms. Facing the firing squad. There are no restrictions, no limits. Cold drafts are echoing moon ballads. Whispers in glass emporiums. Trying to get back to the past, we are stopped in our tracks when we see hearts beating from fickle chests of lovers walking abreast. Instantaneously consonant with our truths. We drag our feet along pavements.  Trying to be strong when we are weak. When we are awake all we want to do is sleep. We cross stepping stones, through the marrow in the cavity of bones. We are the dew and the morning horizon, and the light is burning through us, so we crack from the heat, fraught with nostalgia. We can't undo the knots. We can't undo the knots of our rose petals in vaults. We are inflexible when we want to change. We sit, loveless from day to night. I spill myself like wine.  

  • Author: Jordan Cash (Pseudonym) (Offline Offline)
  • Published: January 21st, 2021 18:41
  • Category: Unclassified
  • Views: 67
  • User favorite of this poem: RDS.


  • dusk arising

    That wine is the poetic blood which daily courses through you and falls from your fingertips as the poetry you write.
    I enjoyed reading this.

    • A Boy With Roses

      Thanx. I'm all too aware the majority of my poetry is written from the depths of stubborn emotions, so I wanted to create something more elastic with a sanguine tone, and hope that comes across.

    • RDS

      Simply beautiful Jordan, I am not so astonished you keep improving in every poem I read but you're style is truly developing to a fine talant. A really enjoyable read/ride.

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