Even as I watch they start to give way

These fragile roses float, slow, and burning

Just a bad metaphor that fades to grey

And fills the void of intrinsic yearning

How is it a void when I feel bloated?

Bloated with despair that doubles as deep

Freedom, a truant balloon that floated,

Slipped through Convention's fingers in her sleep

And fled the safety of the caring fold

As a thief-in-the-night, long gone by dawn

But in mind and heart a hero untold

At least/most a fabled beauty withdraw

The roses fall, and, bruised, breathe of passion

And a faint glamour of love from my ashen