Her Bliss
Her Bliss
Death is in the flower's heart -
Why to cry for life of any petal?
Death in purple ink of weary pens
Betrays the written yearnings
On her scented paper.
Death is laughing in her cry;
Her broken heart forlorn upon the sleeve.
Death ignores the plight of any purity -
He doesn’t care or seem to be aware of
What her dewy eye desires,
For Death beckoned:
'Embrace the jar! '
And yes, she did -
For Death, of course.
After all, no other man would
Open up her hand and bid her with a kiss,
So Death became her bliss.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010