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The Stinging of Roses


by Darryl Price


You're the one who came here looking for me. 
Okay, maybe I was waiting for you, 
too. I hope I was. If so, I'm glad I 
did it. But I don't know when the magic 
we make together will get up and just 
disappear on its own one day any 

more than you. It's not completely up to 
me alone. Of course, I may play my part. 
The part that's always me. I refuse all 
excuses. All us beings choose actions 
as we go about our daily minute 
by minute routine business, out the

door or into the fray. If you think the 
so-called magic of life itself has no 
discernable heartbeat, then you're someone 
I don't need to know. All things can have their 
feelings hurt. Even inanimate and 
solid objects. Plants, trees, books on a shelf. 

Use your imagination. All the bells 
are ringing. All the bells are going off 
at the same acoustic moment because 
they've got a song to sing. A round to ring. 
Stories to contribute to the central 
on-going saga. Of course, we've some door 

nail people stumbling through the galaxy's
jungle plumage who never see the smashed-
up lives beneath their own heavy feet. I 
don't want to be one of them, although I'm 
pretty sure I have been. This makes me sad. 
You don't want to hear about that. It hurts 

like the beautiful sting of a rose's 
unique hypnosis. You're the one who came 
here on your own and I'm glad you did--I'm 
forever grateful it was you and not 
somebody else. That's what the poem means.
You're not too softhearted. Don't believe them.   
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