The Pain of Beauty

Father figure, hard and strong.
Never feel the many wrongs
that bring such pain to you.
Manly man who never cries,
live instead the alibis, never
really feeling right from wrong.

Anathema, that cold hardness
in his stare. Sitting still,
his muscles willed
into those stiffened joints.
Never searching for a salient point,
he wished himself into oblivion.

For there, the world would spin
in resolution. Unending feel
of summer days. He'd watch
the children selling lemonade,
and wish the feel of emptiness
to settle all he craved.

Ordered chaos breaking through
the bonding of the old and new.
The feeling grew beyond the might
of father figure, holding tight.
Long lost, the days conceived
of innocence. Penance done,
but never quite believed.

Silver-gold, the ghostly gleam.
Lancelot brought to extremes
of ever more destructive weaponry.
He swore he'd never kill
but then he willed his life away.

The wording on his gravestone
told his version of the tale of
the rose: Life is short, and
no one ever knows the pain
of beauty reaching out.

They never knew
from where it grew -
the lone red rose
that blooms upon his grave...

? Michaelette ?

7/19/2002
Copyright© 2002 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
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