- Post By: Jason Santo
- Date:
- Category: Uncategorized
- Tags: amwriting, creativewriting, death, decay, fiction, flashfiction, igpoems, igpoets, igwriters, instawriter, loss, microfiction, mobileartistry, poem, poet, poetic, poetry, poetsofig, roses, rotten, shortstory, story, storyteller, writer, writersofinstagram, writing
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It died on the vine, murdered by its own thorns of inattentiveness and misunderstandings, frustrations borne of immeasurable hope turned rancid by routine. Such common failures. The rot seeped as Autumn’s chill, leeching life from each, beauty stultified and care suffocated, delirium spreading. Those caustic words uttered in scowling torment and then the retreat and sought finger knots, loosened permanently by hands atrophied into talons; how they cut, ripping at the precious viscera of union and spilling fetid love, the gored worship of shared dreams. Loss was in season and looking away only hastened the killing stroke. Before noticing the fall would disembowel, the petals of forever embrace shed and satisfaction wilted, commitments abandoned. We deadheaded admirably, guillotined hearts stunned so quickly into stillness that the echo of their beating can still be felt in memory. Bruises fade, but never stop hurting; purple and navy blooms surviving endless Winters. It’s amazing, the dexterous resilience of misery. Seeded in promise, it blossoms within bliss, a cancer devouring every cell of affection until all that’s left is the jail of memory. Life sentence passed, death surrounds and these thorns must dull. Look how sharp they’ve become
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