Rose Garden

The time for writing is now.
When I am young and full of youngness
And all it pertains to; the glorious
Naiveties, the curious and fascinating
Urges, the undying and boundless
Energies of youth and the divine
Sprites of silk and satin
In which I invest too much and too little. 
The falsely wise and wisely false
Acts upon a stage;
Time cascades unremarkably
In its rushing and in mine
To each sweet bloom and back again,
Sipping from each a nectar sweeter,
Yet less rich in the sipping than the rushing.
But to what pollination?
And to what desirous and sated end
Does this sad dance close? Does it close
Alone in the garden
Or in some final, fragrant roost
Among rose petals,
Multifoliate and richlier in their withering,
The peremptory blossom
Waiting alone
In its exultant glen, jewel-like
Diaphanous skin to be savoured
In small mouthfuls and overbrimming gulps
With an undying fervour?
Is that love? 
To what final call do we heed
As men; am I one of them? 
And what if I am doomed to this
Nomadic passion?
I want to know them all, the shy whispers
And silent reveries, the many necks and cheekbones
Fit for nuzzling and warm breath,
Knowing grins across dinner tables
And mischievous eyes over wet mouths. 
But to what fragrant culmination?
Is to wander to be lost
Or to be found?
Perhaps neither and indeed both,
A treacherous dichotomy,
For to be found one must be lost. 
This wandering is methodical:
The labyrinth is full of many such flowers
And many such pathways;
I fear most of all 
That I will miss the glorious rose
By a moments hesitation
And she will be gone. 
They say ignorance is bliss
And I believe them. 
There is surely no solace in knowledge
For knowledge only flits and dances too
In inner coteries of the mind
Till it drains from our poorly fitted skull-cages,
Through clutching fingers of old age and sad humanity,
As humanity is mortality, subject to decay
As brains are, and the dear stuff of our bodies.
Knowledge only leads to dissatisfaction,
For we cannot know everything, 
And it is such a delirious substance.
At least the beasts may be sated
In their primeval grunting and small understandings; 
They know not rose from dandelion
And do not care. 
How many must I pick,
These fanciful blossoms?
I cannot ever say just what it is;
Language falters at love’s borders.
Do I love them all?
And am I more cruel
In love or deprivation? 

2 responses to “Rose Garden

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