Strands of soft red flowers adorn
the gate to the garden where beyond
we pose a pietà:
you the designated Madonna,
me?
dying in your arms,
looking up at fear filled eyes of what will come:
mourning for what I took,
for what I never gave you.
Here the photographer becomes an audience,
mere sympathy; she'll
never know our story.
This image tells its own lies,
none-the-less,
yet the picture remains a legacy
of love-lies-bleeding
at my behest.
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