Roses giving us a reason to talk,
like nosebleed stained toilet paper,
and what are words, but sophisticated noise
giving us a reason to listen?
There's no florists eight hours away
from Winnipeg, only grocery store
bouquets that come with a last meal
in a small packet with their own instructions.
So many flowers sacrificed for love-
a word with its own language,
even if a kiss speaks for itself,
while every unsaid goodbye spits silence.
The Strange Nature of Things
Days predictable as blue skies
surrendering to grey clouds
so we can make a metaphor
of rain, but to smile at puddles
is true strength, denying the weather
from weathering how we feel.
Yet we must acknowledge the deserts
we conceal deep down
in the well of our being,
where winters hide in 100 degrees shadows,
making us dream of snowflakes
without realizing they taste of death.
Deja Vu Days
I will be asleep shortly
because the day was long,
like a stray hair
lying dead in the bathtub.
I will dream of strangers
and tell myself they are part of me
because that's more normal
than believing in past lives or clairvoyancy.
I will curse the alarm clock
for reminding me how quiet sunlight can be,
bathing both the living and deceased
just enough for lips to crack, unkissed again.