rose gardens

make no mistake i’m not here to write words for joy
nor any to make you lighter at heart
i mouth to kill you from here from me.
in a hundred years i see you unchanged
belittled by few possibly thinking of change
i am sick of you.

who makes these candle sticks
that'd glow someday to light a table
in some darkness?

i see its wax, hit the floor to splash into eyes
as blinding as any red cross stickers
scream heard as a whisper
you
candle makers
i am sick of you.