Emily’s Roses

He brought Emily fresh roses he picked from her garden
That she tends by the fence where they live.
He neared their bedroom as many times before,
Handing her the roses, his smile held her captive.

His is still freshly bathed with another woman’s scent,
Understanding this leaves her cold from his touch.
Emily will cut down the roses, with thorns in her hands,
She’ll cry not for she loved him so much.

A tall glass of whiskey will give her the nerve
For what has been long overdue.
Have all of his lovers emptied his soul?
She lowered her head and withdrew.

He calls out to Emily as she walked out of sight.
The room is filled with a breeze.
It catches her note as it floats to the ground.
A painful end to their journey.

Roses in hand, blood dripping down the petals,
Standing in an alley on a warm autumn night.
Sweet rescue from desperation, sweet relief came to be.
She drops the knife in the glow of the streetlight.

As she closes her eyes her mind starts to drift.
Her relief is crimson and shallow her breath.
Her hand drops the flowers as she whispers alone,
“Roses from my garden for my death.”

By Sherbie Hudgins
White House, TN