by tender fists - a poem

By tender fists,

I clutch one rose bloom

From late October’s eve,

An early frostbite bit it

The scars still swell, the stem,

Punctured with dew, so bright,

The green fuse alit

By artificial bursts

Of electrical false lights,

They do no justice,

They fall too slow

And grind your bloom

So slowly, molten now,

On a dead December eve…