Roses

He picked up roses on road sides
for lost souls he picked up on his side
of the bar, on late nights, in self-induced blackouts.
Because no one informed him that roses
shrivel and wither like those endeared,
he now lives discarded, forgotten
with pictures of roses his loved ones forgot
he bought to prove their worth.
And his diamond was sold and passed on,
like the souls of his lovers long gone,
to hipsters and junkies who can’t know their stories.
How sadly he chokes on his gapsers
because of his troubled breathing.
Now he no longer has roses, and
it’s three o’clock in the morning;
he’s naked, inhaling smoke, since it
reminds him of sweetness no longer his.