Death of the Rose

Alas the rose,
The elevator of my solitude has stuck
Not to my own sentient thoughts dwell within my body
Or the body of my other,
Outward it seeks, flinging past oceans
Desperate and searching
Filled with lust and terror.

The carriage noisily went by
On the cobblestones,
The woman on the corner was splashed
With muddy water
Her clothes molded to her body,
The sin of thought, without action I might add,
Cloistered virtue broken by one mere curve.

The body finds itself more commonly in malaise,
Thrills and its seekers no longer provide
The sustenance required by that of youth
How can the epic pursuit of the fleshen ,
Be bound to the mundane,
It causes the senses to bound a plenty
At the discovery of the vastness of their world.

With consumed grief
The body will do strange things
For example, the woman in the corner,
Her love is the man in the casket.
She will die and be reborn tonight.
Over and over.
Because of me.