I dreamt of a rose that grew dissatisfied
with the trickle of blood drawn by a thorn
and willfully grew great fangs
like a smilodon or other prehistoric thing
and tore at throats, rent skulls in half and
splattered brains on carpet like cracker-crumbs.
I only guessed at the name of this destructive beauty
and as I awoke, wondered if a rose fed on gore
perhaps smelled sweeter?
A Rose With No Other Name
