The Man Who Lost The Rose

Burning papers into ashes, what a season
How they fly high from the ground up
There is yet another fountain
Flowing over, as the night falls
Keep dreaming away
* * *
He wanders this desert wasteland
Footprints ephemeral in the settling dust
The rose is forgotten in his hands
As he falls in love with the memory of her.
Oh, she must have smelled like
The opening of heaven’s door
Even as he tried to remember, and failed.
Oh, each thorn, dripping with
Her venomous wit, must have
Stolen his breath or stilled his heart.
Each petal caressed, brushed with
A fingertip, must have been the soft of
Caterpillars feeding on leaves and of
Butterfly wings kissing the breeze.
He stops his traipsing, choosing
Instead to be lost in the labyrinth
Of memories both imagined and real.
* * *
If you hold on to that past
Don’t you lock yourself inside
Nothing has been done before
It’s the most virgin dress you could possibly wear
Mess it up
Time is up
* * *
With the setting sun, dust settles
And everything looks like the landscape:
Brown and bleak, dead and desolate.
He stirs to life grasping at fleeting dreams;
The taste of love with peculiar flavours,
A bed of memories strewn with rose petals,
The heady aroma of her nearness,
Of holding her in a lover’s embrace.
Waking, he stumbles after an ignis fatuus,
A ghostly phosphorescence fading into
Neverness to discover he is once again
Lost, as he always has been yet this time
He feels there is hope only to discover
Her absence knowing one cannot misplace love.
Even though he is lost, he finds that
He’d forgotten what it felt like
Being lonely. His steps falter
And he wonders if he can carry on…
* * *
Hold your memory for a moment, with a blind hand
Write some stories for tomorrow
From the bottle of amnesia
Find instructions, to salvation
To oblivion supreme
* * *
He wanders this desert wasteland dazed
And deprived of the drive that living
Demands. He becomes an automaton,
His mind separate from his body, His soul
The black of abyss. Her fragrance lingers
In the air, and he sees a resemblance of her
In Everything. The rising dawn reminding him
Of the blush of summer in her hues
But the sun never could match her
In glory.
He never saw beneath her veil, although
He saw the true depth of her beauty when
He spied her unguarded soul. Where else
Could true beauty reside? In the fog of
Loneliness enshrouding him, a steady
Warmth suffuses him, spreading outward
Like the dawn itself. Be it from the
Knowing that he had loved and been loved
Or that he had temporarily had something
Unpurchasable, something exclusively his,
He never could tell but it burnt the fog away.
His mind soon finds his body, his soul
Finds a light, Feet find their rhythm
And he finds himself.
* * *
Don’t be tempted to look back
It has all happened before
Someday miraculous spread
Will forgive every cowardly thing that you’ve done
That I’ve done
Dust it off
(That you’ve done
That we’ve done)
The Dø “Dust It Off”