The bitter thorns slowly pierce inwards,
Tearing the flesh apart.
The gentle stem stands half erect,
Tainted. Spoiled. Shamed.
Her aged leaves impress the elders,
Still they create wonders of art.
Her hardened bud hides the beauty within,
A veil to bury her pride.
If only this seed had fallen elsewhere,
If only she’d grown with the rest.
A gentle breeze topples her soul,
She sways on impulse.
Her spirit wilts,
Like a diminishing soul without hope.
Her tender name echoes whispers of the past,
Gently screaming ‘Rose’.
Time that is now shadows the past,
When once she stood so boldly.
Towering trees shimmer above,
That plunge leaves of stone upon her frailty, from time to time.
The imprint of a shoulder,
Lies firmly in her support. Cold.
Images of a happy soul,
Reflect off her mirrored eyes.
The sweet name sends whispers of ‘Angel’,
To every flower that grows.
But the hardened soul does not lie,
Nor does it hide sap-like tears of pain.
A wilted soul, a broken stem,
A stunning head hung low.
Never could such a saddened being
By the name of darling ‘Rose’ go.