GIVE MY LOVE TO ROSE

One day I died, and I was only 65. My spirit, it awoke from its slumber, right on the other side. And It began to run. 

It was a simple afternoon, vivid, Summer of '95. Felt my blood run cold in slow motion; I grew teary-eyed, I could have cried. Hearts don't play dice; not when it's turned stingy with each breath it's heaving. Final breath, the signature of my life. Pupils dilated: watching faded memories of my years give room for new life; lives waiting patiently on the line, for the sound of the next crashing light.  My spirit, alive. My body, deceased. It must have crashed and burned with a star. I woke up running like a tornado the speed of light! No white light, and no crashing sound on my own side. In life, you see, I was moved by nothing and ran too, from nothing.  Still, now, I run not in fear. All around me, this is what I see: an empty sky with flowers and shadows hanging off the walls. I must run! Pushing, slicing through the wind; I'll paint pictures of this ghastly view as I run. Primrose and moon flowers, many; in the darkest shadows, these cast an aching bloom. Roses. White roses. Of such, I find none. Her name was always in tact with a Rose prefixed and attached. I knew her star, and she knew mine. It's an empty sky; I think I've died and left Rose behind. I run to catch time. We talked a few of these times. The sailor she dreamed of throughout her life-on many starry nights-she hoped I'd be him on the other side. He found her by gazing from the waters to the starry night sky. She found him in her dreams at night time.  

Summer of '95: I'm reborn. 

I chose prison time for this next life. Urgently doing my time, dying to feel alive. My next appointed time with destiny creeps in, Winter of 2025. I am that sailor: chasing after time, navigating strong winds, and aligned with the sky. She waits to be my winter rose. I wait also to be hers if she'll love me urgently.  I have waited urgently to die for her behind bars, in the hopes she'll live through her long life. My Rose is now reborn. Winter, prefixed and attached to her name; she's mine.