Digging shallow graves for memory,
deeper, slightly, for my love, which must be buried,
but my pain will not remain below, it sprouts
and flowers, deep red blooms of blood and bruises,
purple, too, and only visible by moonlight,
greet me when I wander, restless,
searching for the answers never given.
I am left with just confusion, and no journeys into darkness
give me peace, because more questions simply beg themselves
and those crimson blooms have thorns which prick and
I will never pick them.
Even their petals seem to wound.
Emily Rosier has kept sketchpads and notebooks, filled with the pages of her life, in words and images. She hopes it might inspire emotion, stir the senses, perhaps prompt recognition of certain feelings or experiences. She hopes it moves people, and makes them thoughtful. So, here it is…a part of it…private for so many years…her heart and soul on paper. She hopes it makes people feel.
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