A rose for Death

I have a crush on Death,

An insatiable, irrational, infatuation...

Sometimes I talk to him, just like Macbeth,

Knowing he is close, in every situation.

Between my fingers I twirl his rose,

Letting the thorns pierce my fingers,

Relishing the pricks I suppose,

As on the thorns my blood lingers.

Sometimes in the deepest darkest night,

I crave his cold, emotionless ethereal embrace,

No longer caring for the coming of the light,

Only the final wish to gaze longingly upon his face.

Gently with lovers touch of thoughtful lingering,

Feel with malice aforethought, ice cold steel perfection,

Slowly its whetted sharpness upon my skin dithering, 

Momentary sanity prevails upon my Life dereliction. 

Tears, suffice to flow, as within my beat of heart,

Deep in my very veins a warm intamicy, 

That has been there from the very start,

Reborn, rekindled and now nurtured with delicacy.

A pure, unblemished white carnation,

I fondle between raw, scarred finger tips,

Eyes alive, sparkling with new found adoration,

To Life bequeath my undying love from living lips.