Blue Rose

Like a field of burning roses, distorted identities

arise in sweet smoke.

History, to inflate his ego. Conformity,

to dominate her image.



Her expensive anatomy is the pinnacle of art

Not an inexpensive automobile, under his control,

he is not the driver.



She flows with no restrictions.

Like a dandelion that is blown

with the wind, she flows. Like volcanic magma

pouring into the sea, she flows,

merrily like the blue mountain stream raging into

the soil filling it with vitality.



Her body belongs to she,

to do with as she please. The blessing of creation, a portal

aligned with the gates of life,

belongs to her. And she has the key.



Polished instruments of oppression,

trophies submerged in lullabies, stained by

submissive conditioning.

Her wounded body, misused and confused

still delivers a filled womb; that blooms delicate blue roses fertilized

with tears. Emotional exploitation camouflages

the intrusion of his sympathy, saturated in poison slanders

divine feminity, stripping her of power.



Born of her

who had the power to do as she wishes

I, he, a mirror that hums the tune of her

sea. Absorbing light while consumed in darkness,

he reflects her magic, illustrating her creation.

birthed in a basket woven with fallacies and carried in truth,

he is seated in guilt.



His spells do not cast here,

she is both life and death

her power, her choice.



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