And for what felt like the millionth time
I told them to stay, to wait,
stick around, smell those sweet roses
and that things would get better, eventually;
please stop dancing with the razor's blade
and come down off that stirr'd chair.

But they ever-so loved the chair,
as they stood there all the time
lingering, twirling that ebon blade;
and I could only urge them to wait
in hopes that someone, eventually
would help them with those thorn'd roses.

Though they did remind me so of roses,
sprawled around a gardener's chair
that he'd get around to dealing with eventually,
but letting them withstand the test of time
as surely their beauty would be worth the wait
rather than taking the scissor'd blade.

I may place my hand upon the blade
-that shoulder I had dressed with roses
as I warned myself to wait,
lean back in my ever-rocking chair
and spend the ever-dwindling time
holding for what would come, eventually.

Those colors, white, red-and-blue, eventually
footsteps rushing, crushing the grassy blade
desperate to arrive, come in time
pushing past those rotten roses
plucking them from the wayward chair
and finally relieving me of my quiver'd wait.

And then there'd be no need to wait,
and no more need for "eventually,"
no more use for a flimsy chair,
and certainly not that wretched blade
or those bloody, shredded roses
as it would, at last, be the right'd time.

But 'till then, in this chair I do solemnly wait
eyes counting the time, knowing that surely, eventually
I'd be liberat'd from sanguine blades in a hollowed bed of roses.