the blooming of a rose

the end sounds like the doors

are closed 

but across the front lines

lives are flung from the past,

dodging mine fields

and drone strikes,

seeking adventure

in the blooming of a rose.

its' soft red petals, barely attached

in the late fall,

look awfully much like sad shoulders

learning of a death,

but the scent rubs against my cheek

and my hands burn.

i'm resting against a chain link fence

thinking of the open space

barely moments from my face,

floating upon the currents of daylight,

when i see you

worshiping the sun.

your voice jumps the gap separating us

and plays with my eyes,

and the future appears.