How Fickle The Pickled Rose In Its' Orchard Grave Poem, by Melvin James, at My poetic side

how fickle the pickled rose in its' orchard grave

slave to the abandoned eyes through blanket trees

pleasing to the blinkered heart of a superficial heirloom hanging still

six miles shy of a camels' back

once thirsty for the tortutured thorns disfigured gut

that once ripped through the veins of my wrist;

sunshine on the flowered bed where once crept a black lungs bride

guided to the churchyard landfills ever increasing populas of high intense demands

bemused only by the untimely death of my impotent hands

as the glands of the scurrying April rain massage the temples of my brood

with its' nondeclarative passages from the drunken throat of a Sunday morning tramp;

samphire smoke from the vampires' crystal ball

bites through the secret desires of my lust for the rusting clerics' smalls

to satisfy my curiousity - and satisfy once more-

my love for a dead disciples spleen

to pick through the bones of its' deranged and troubled dirt

and when he runs with gay abandon through the sinews of my neck

I will lay beside my one true love

and tell her where it hurts;

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How Fickle The Pickled Rose In Its' Orchard Grave