Have you seen my rose? said I, with strangled
vocal chords — my pleadingness distorted
by the criss-cross patterned veil which dangled
down around my face, my vision thwarted.
Why give me eyes and voice then hide my rose
behind a shrouded whisperful disguise
I never asked to wear? But no one knows
and none can tell me where my flower lies.
I threw myself in tatters to the ground,
full unaware who I was talking to.
At which a voice then trespassed with a sound
from Asgard through my head to give a clue:
“The rose you seek is what you once enjoyed
before you to this hellhole were deployed.”
© Alan Morrison, 2016