Two See Your Suicide Poem by James McLain

In the middle of the room
the hand moves so slowly.
The petals open for years
rich in tears by the window
packed around, a faded rose.

Where ever spring stayed
full and green each stem was.
The one thorn so familiar did
always bring a bout two curtsy.

The swelling finger swoons gently
as the swan opens white long wings,
as feet push into the water, flying off.

The rose, now weeps to the touch
never to be touched, and life it spills.
Lifting the vase bitter tasting is sleep.