In the garden,
Lily,
does wait.
I’m the blackest rose,
ready,
to pollinate.

Her milk white
–bark,
is smooth and fine.
I consider,
I,
just might take my time.

Like a needle
–poised
I’ll penetrate.
And in every
–pore
I’ll permeate.

In this seamy
place,
flowers carry blood.
I’ll make her
drink,
the liquid love.

Her sullen heart,
we’ll
never last.
And wither up,
–stop,
turn to ash.

When the curtain
falls,
we exit left.
I’ll always be the
cancer,
of this myth.