Roses

by Wayne Russell

The blood red roses

climbing up the trellis

of infamy

into the complexities

of languid night

their callous thorns

prickly and unhinged

their petals taunt and

.

share disinclination,

I am the artist, the painter

of cruel life

my words aim to sooth

the roses in mid symphony

I speak for the broken hearts

throughout the ages, blood

red roses given

love unrequited, their thorns

penetrating raw emotion and

piercing flesh

I am the dream relinquished,

the roses grow overwhelming

and cover what remains.

Cindy Rosmus originally hails from the Ironbound section of Newark, NJ, once voted the “unfriendliest city on the planet.” She talks like Anybodys from West Side Story and everybody from Saturday Night Fever. Her noir/horror/bizarro stories have been published in the coolest places, such as Shotgun Honey; Megazine; Dark Dossier; The Rye Whiskey Review, Under the Bleachers, and Rock and a Hard Place. She is the editor/art director of Yellow Mama. She’s published seven collections of short stories. Cindy is a Gemini, a Christian, and an animal rights advocate. She has recently branched out into photo illustration.