The Rose Beyond Us

The rose beyond us, icon of fate—
how whisper-thin, the frail,
the dream key (our bodies)—and
is suspended, this rose, emerging from
the majestic black expanse of space,
we have feared it, it doesn’t speak,
but knows, as intelligence itself perceives—
we are it, it is the symbol of our minds
when the undulations of our drownings cease—
thoughtless acceptance, I am evil—what
scary blossom; blood red, the painted gate
to paradise, the Godlike spiral of our lives.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio


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