TymeProse for Thursday, March 26, 2009

Once was a simple garden of daisies growing here and there among roses stained by blood. But I did not know those daisies would be a garland upon my head. And as blood must spill to wear the red of a bloody rose, I could not think of lovely things, like petals creamed to butter; I could not think of simpler things-- of babies bubbling, or toddlers tickling: I could not think of anything. Sign in to see full entry.

"I'm gettin' old," he'd say but to me, he was young so young, his face told a tale of trials and tears and raw love breakin' all the rules. So young, I could taste him on the tip of my tongue when he kissed me and curled his fingers in my hair like an autumn rake through sweet messy hay all rumpled and strewn about from a romp on his lap and hot moist air in his ear. "Yeah, I'm just an old man," he'd say, 'cause he knew I'd have to prove him wrong one more day. Sign in to see full entry.