Sunday, June 5, 2011

The Cowboy and the Rose

I see her with the corner of my eye
As her love hands her, her martini dry
I take a swig and blink to check if it’s real
My love whispers me to go easy on the rye

Maybe she saw me drinking but not my thirst
We act like two strangers turning into dust
She is at this gala, glowing, maybe Our love
 Has weathered, maybe she’s just on her first.

She is still as pretty, that she knows
Her beauty still deserves a song, a poem, a prose.
But what she doesn’t know when separated
to wither and die is the fate of the rose.

The shoot, ugly and stubbed will still linger on
Like the weary cowboy wandering for an aeon.
Before picking the flower, he didn’t know
That every rose has its thorn.

We are, like all who became one,
now two halves. The truth she’s trying to shun.
We broke up and she moved away and on
Both our found new loves, none one won.

You will die and I will roam dusty and worn
Every rose has its thorn
Just like every night has its dawn
Just like every cowboy sings his sad, sad song

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