WHEN WILL A REAL ROSE BUD

One finds it difficult
To live with oneself these days
And nights
Of meaningless stressfulness.

The sun shines but we must fear
Its over heating
The rains come down in torrents
But its not enough
Like money
Mistaken, for the water of Life
Cannot be metered out
For cash
Locked in a tetanus
Lockjawed we cannot speak,
Perhaps we caught it
On the thorn beneath the rose
We ravished with desire
Possession deluded
Always becomes possessed
Of the rose itself? Oh no not that
Only the dead shorn stem
The bloom blow of petals gone