Girl In A Rose

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There was a girl
Who fell asleep in a rose.
For a pillow she took a purple petal
And the blanket too
Was soft as a princess’s cheek.
And her dreams were fragrant
And brought about the soundest sleep
As if upon a leaf
All that might be
Could really come to pass.
And when she wakes,
For she will wake refreshed,
She will sip upon a perfect sphere
Held within a purple
Rose petal glass.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

Night After Sunshine

I walk barefoot
And feel the sun’s memory
In kiss of warm concrete.
And then to the cool grass
To which I feel the earth’s body,
Lumpy and imperfect
But encompassing
The gentlest hug.
And there
I perceive personality
In night-sweet
And night-flush,
The scently gush of roses
Dripping the pollen of their love,
Feeding nocturnal bug and drab
Moth alike, just as butterflies of day’s
Light take their nourishment.
For the dark is full of giving
And the rose seeks no commitment
But gives
To all those wishing
To sip the nectar of its life,
Knowing them as equals
In the wholeness
Of the wholesome day and night.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

In The Rose

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Nose first
And all the body
Thrust after it,
For I go
Gladly to the rose’s
Soft flesh,
Plunge myself within
To be enveloped
Wholly in petal silk
And scents of dreams,
Sweet as the loveliest
Material or lovers skin
Impregnated with sunshine,
Fine nectars, oils and essences.

For a moment I am lost,
Dipped as I am
In relaxation
Of all but the only sense in the world:
The pure thing found
In candied whorl
Of the rose’s
Delicate unwind
And fragrant shimmering.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015