addict

we are all addicted

something to cushion the shock of  existence

to ease the swellings we sustain

mine was roses though it has been other less desirable things;

a naricissist  once stumbled into my lost years masquerading

as a mentor but his name was bluebeard (there were women’s

bones in his basement)  flooding my void with his,

oxytocin lode in my veins – how i could not

turn away, but his was vaster and subsumed mine 

overturning my cart neatly stacked with apples

 this treachery i had invited

roses a far less precarious thing to disappear into

and you would think, not as perilous

i kept planting them where they would not flourish

because i would not see for my need

of them planting under trees which robbed

them and they pined away for,  neither living nor dead

refusing thier blooming, the canker  slowly stealing

browned deadness down thorn by thorn

yet i kept visiting rose sellers  swooning

at festoons of roses, swooning and  desirous 

this was my tenure on the land which cannot be owned; 

and the roses served thier imposed indenture

until their release at the sold garden

and now i inhale  all  the world’s gardens