The Remaining Flower

His grisly face bore its stern steely glance,
etched into stone by life's hammer as a cop,
body of iron, his insides cold, but having passion's flicker,
admired and feared, always a towering pillar of strength.

Tonight he sits upon the porch, fumbling with the remaining flower
from the bouquet he had crushed in his deep incredible pain,
silent, feeling void and full of grief that his eyes refused to admit,
having fallen in love with a goddess intending to give her the flowers
before asking her to marry him, until his heart pierced from the shock,
seeing her in cuffs at the station, arrested by vice for prostitution.