petals of a white rose

It starts with a whisper whirling at the center, vapor on the verge of atmosphere… 

enter chlorophyll and the chorus of dissidents, their barbed tongues snipped and

dropped from the infidel rafters. Grace is a storm-switch killing karma on the spot

where it stands. The forecast this year is the silkscreen of your hands. Accidents

in the rear-view mirror are more intentional than they appear. Not a day goes by

without complicity. Expecting least but making most. Not a day begins without

complexion of white rose. Complacency thickens into russet-red clots of half-

intended thoughts. A droplet spurs a subtle ripple. Insert contemporary expletive. 

Ignite extenuating circumstances. Faith goes first to the fire. I turn within. Ain’t

no one gonna come for this skin. And when hour of conscription comes creeping,

I wither to think I should assemble in the rows. Or do I go by way of white—

no one knows the outcome. I’ve known that lonesome. Better than having some
body moored in my seasick harbor. No kiss for paralysis.