petals of a white rose

When close at hand our habits molt and leave us with nothing but husks

of our previous pleasures, we have no choice but to perch on a nauseating

rung and recalibrate the angel. Even when I find myself hoping for a finale

as grand as the canyon of my isolation, I know that my worst, that kernel

of my nature and my ingrained forfeiture, can only keep up with the heels

of phantoms which preceded me. I go beyond naming. Noxious cliques

and categories go press themselves between blank pages. Sorry for this 

disguise. I wanted to be caught. Turns out the sweat was dew from a gone-

sinking garden. They say don't be a stranger, which is confusing: stranger

is all I know how to be. Swirling guilt and disgrace, poorly built so that 

a couple stray looks risks disassembly, I withdraw from the good fight, good 

night, it was fun, my stunt as a recognizable someone. Wanted white rose and 

instead got a dose of my truer nature. Wanted to know how that air tasted out

there but can't see past my hair. Wish I knew how to adjust for this unshakable

weight but it's got me scared beyond restraint. Pretty images masking petty 

storylines. Understand wanting nothing with what's ahead. White rose quelled 
out of reach  once again.