Fore-verse

A mere white tube-rose

Must first be freshly dead

Before it becomes experimental paraphernalia

In the ink-pot.

At first, the broken stem puckers its lips,

Daring to test the moist blue-ness.

Slowly, all the chromes are drunk,

The white tube-rose turns blue

Somewhere between lifelessness and decay

Holding within itself what could have been

A poem, an endearment;

Gaining omniscience over what would have been

Secrets, bitter truths.

Stories consume it

So they can be told in another life-time.