shut up and consider the rose
since i came to this place,
i have enjoyed the privilege
of being able to write poetry
i remember the tour when i first arrived
"welcome to the castle
here is the dining room where you will be taking your meals
this way to the lbrary
down that hall is the consevatory
the sitting room is just there to the right
now lets go upstairs, here is your room
i hope everything is satisfactory"
"what's that? oh sir, that leads to the east wing
we are not allowed to go there
the master expressly forbids it"
all of my poetry is written from the rooms
where the servants take good care of you
i have even written a daring poem or two
while seated just outside the heavy doors
which guard the east wing, and one from the garden
peering in through dust obscured windows
i cannot even begin to form a sentence
when i think of throwing those doors open
and taking a real risk.
it is quite poignant, however,
the way a rose, just before it drops its petals,
seems to thrust them out in all directions.
no longer proper, a sort of last wanton
grasping for love.