QUASI MODI

A winter's day, crystal sunshine
courts cheery laughter,
roses bloom amid baby's breath,
innocence trills, a perfumed
melody fills the room.

A shower of icy shafts shatters
my silver crescendo,
blanches blushing blossoms;
frigid glances puncture my heart.

Crimson drops issue from my eyes,
float upon my breath into 
tomorrow's refrains.

There I wait, on a porch that stands
no more, trembling in a patch
of noonday warmth,
muted in mid-song, cast aside,
bewilderment my sole refuge. 

A lamentable presence, a shard of
glass in her roseate compote,
this lumpen excrescence
she would disavow,
its duty done,
in its silken essence she revels.

Honeybee, alight not on one bereft
of the sparkling nectar
you seek. Away, for I am
perfumed with bitter almonds.
I contain your death throes.

Your garden no longer breathes,
mother, 
your shrine to yourself
that once thrived on your vanity.

I still smile and sing in the dark, 
alone with my affliction,
unseen, unheard,
for my breath would blight every
garden. No, blatant gaiety
would not behove
a rose with stem awry.

© 2014 Lily's Verse
Lilium Candidum

Image: STUDY FOR THE LADY CLARE
Source: paintingandframe.com
Artist: John William Waterhouse