Twilight, and the ocean breaks along the crag,

drenching the fringes in the spray of its caress.

Night steals in in its wake,

chasing every glimmer away from its resting place.

Slumber belongs to the living.

Those, she swaddles so tightly

they can rarely wriggle free from fantasy,

while the few who manage their escape

believe themselves those living the dream

in a place the others could scarcely imagine.

Twilight, and the ocean breaks along the crag,

drenching the fringes in the spray of its caress.

Light sneaks in as night ebbs away,

settling along the ridges where darkness cowered.

Life emerges from beneath slumber’s cover

to scuttle sunlit shores.

Those whose freedom could not be found

believe themselves living flashes of the night before.

The rest wish they had answered slumber’s call.

We meant to prune the roses someday,

but didn’t. Now a single monstrous branch

bursts out of the jasmine, weighted down

by long-necked heads 

untamed by shears.

Where one is severed, another sprouts

into a frenzy of shattered spirals

(It is a pleasure to behead)

Red-clenched buds burst open and fall,

and leaves behind on each lonely stem, 

a naked face

a green-petalled star.