Robert Frost Would Be Proud

Roses Are Red

Did you know that your facial expressions are formed by muscles lying between the skin and the skull, and that the skull itself does not actually contort into whatever expression the face is making? True story.

This poem reminds me so much of something I would have repeated as a child. You know how boys are: they like taking familiar rhymes and twisting them into something silly or slightly perverse. “Jingle Bells, Batman smells…” and so on. But rarely has such parody so perfectly encapsulated the pathos of modern existence!

The roses are dead!

Tragedy: Love is dead, speared on the thorns of its emblematic roses by cruel fate! Solitude is the casket in which it will be buried.

The violets are rotten!

Horror: The blossoms of spring have wilted and fallen away. Dark winter has set upon my heart. The interminable nights will freeze my spirit and my bones!

I’m freakin crazy!

Suffering: The never-ceasing assault of darkness and despair has driven me from sanity and robbed me of my ability to spell or at least to place apostrophes to indicate missing letters! How can I rouse myself from my angst? I must let the world know of my illness!

Or have you forgotten?

Oblivion: Just like you forgot about me! Oh, for how long must I endure my empty longings? For how long must the echoes of your cruel laughter ring in my ears? Surcease! Surcease!

Thank you. Thank you very much.

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