The Rose

And she visits today this strange
Friend of mine who is in
Mid-trauma and dizzy
With demand.  I know the
Place where she lives I have
Been in it and bled, bled
Myself to white and
Nothingness that was a fluid
Purging of those bad
Seeping years that defiled, 
And now, looking back, I
Welcomed it, its painful
Fact, for it released me
To a resurrected self 
I never would have
Lived without.  The pus
Of that time was merely 
Feeding ground from
Which I grew my
Rose.  And now I flower
Mightily, though nobody
Sees.  I will tell her this
Today when she visits.

previous poem