RED ROSE SOUR DREAM.

Blessed is the turmoil of life
so strange a sweet of bitter taste
made sour by petty things that could be guessed
as trivial, they rest like dragons in the wings
disguised in all manner of shoddy garments
twirled in frantic twist-dance motion,
graffiti on each ribbon tied in knots around the gullet
of a gusset sporting a red rose,
ageing hair dyed black russet lips pink cheeks
hiding all uneven thoughts in clouds of powdered
dreams decaying faded browns and verdigreens,
if only we could see what holes we leave
in seams of posh dresses
draughts of derision lurking leering
laughing at our games as we stagger smitten
in weak-kneed helplessness through the mires
and trials of lack of understanding.

All knowledge man-made in the first place
we play our theatrical parts according
to the whims and fancies latent in our genes
waiting to develop, caught by unlucky leaders
in society who guide the young keen minds
towards the abyss of ignorance
and stubborn stupidity
by the nose with drugs, by the eyes with visions
of a false paradise, by the ears seduced in musical
fanaticism, the beat beating our senses insensitive
and flat, it is the sensibility of our every thought
that strengthens our window on life,
its weathered surface scored and painted
as we wield the brush and knife,
bold and brash, gentle and aesthetic
according to our nature and the environmental influences
on the given character of the genes.

Onlyann.