The sickly scent of white roses--
mildew and rotten honey--
waft up to my nose.
There are flies orbiting my ear
and I swat myself on the thigh.
It has been two weeks since the roses
have sagged upon the shelf.
They are swooning and wilted
and sick of flies licking their barren nectaries.
Their scent makes me shudder:
I feel it climb up my arm,
faintly, tracing my veins.
But I can't throw them away:
no, not yet. not ever.
No, because honey does not
rot.
-
Author:
PennedAI (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: April 21st, 2026 04:52
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 3
Offline)
Comments1
There is a deep message under the stickiness of this poem and the ageless virtue of honey. Nicely worked
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.