The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Death

Death is a black rose
of spiced charcoal petals 
fragrant with an unsatisfying opacity
wrapped up in silvered cornered moments
encrusted with rubied drops drying 
to the dusty ochre hue of crumbling bricks,
rouge to hide the unendingly sorrowful yowl
and the bright reflection of swollen eyesockets
staring into the one fulcrum for every endeavour
the lapping waves to fade our sandy steps
syncopated by the seraphic arrows of loss 
that prod our ceaseless molting and offer
the bitter brew of phoenix-teared tea.

We the refugees trod on
eager to find the numbing waters of 
the mountain pass that no wanderer has returned
to affix to our assiduously shared cartography
or the songs that echo across the heathers 
when we can neither sleep nor stir
knowing even beloved embers cool.
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