Bitter Roses in a Wooden Box

Here, there.
Nothing matters.
Not even memories.
Silent, deadly, wordless,
Passive sympathy takes hold.

Perhaps it came
from a flowing darkness
that matched a raven’s subtle hair.

Perhaps it was formed
from a liquid sorrow that collected
on the leaves first to born in the new life-year.

Whatever brought it forth,
stung the heart and thrummed
a rhythm that challenged the very soul.

No form could it hold,
No shape could it make.
Not an eye could caress
its being with blight nor care.

It is perfect
for none could judge
from the light its shell reflected.

It was as if a friend,
as if a stranger, a darker foe
for its danger lies in secret,
a sweeter ally for its secret
was kept in silence.

In the center
Lies a bead of autumn’s nectar,
a divinity just maturing
into winter’s breath.

It whispers of a ray of sun,
the kiss of a wandering breeze,
a lost aroma,
beauty,
the heat of passion,
and a bitter loss of life.

Petals, once scarlet,
wrap smoothly, delicately,
as they wither into the deepest hue of blood.
Their youthful skin falls to dangerous frailty,
fearing the very air that once praised them.

They are many,
lying cold, captive,
in a bed carved from another body
that once lived wild. Calling to the sky
as its arms reached, the enticing blue
teasing as a winking sapphire.

Now a case of perfect angles,
softened and stained.
Gold clasps the dead parts together,
sealing what hides inside.

Fondling around and within
each summer corpse it lies.
Naked to only one, grasped
only by a single master.

A master who did nothing
but live and collect
that which has passed
to preserve what was felt.

How was it formed?
Why does it pull at the corners of these eyes?
Why does it envelope the heart and make it sing?
Why does it set a blaze within these depths?
Why can’t it be grasped by the mind?

All these eyes translate
is the death which befell
silent creatures who lust for light,
not this saturated darkness.

Yet this soul stirs
at the nothingness lingering
around these objects that mean
nothing but a gentle greed,
and a quiet murmur of what is to be.

A master
found them full of meaning,
catching in the pupils an image
seen in dream, seen in memory.

Though that didn’t matter.
For what was left behind
was some thing unseen,
formed from strength,
drying tears, utter joy,
and bitter love.

What is this,
which the mind cannot comprehend,
yet the soul can see?

What is this,
which hides deeper
than the nectar most divine?

What is this,
trapped inside?
Left behind?