Beautiful Rose
Once, I grew in a garden,
but, now I am part of a death bouquet;
on top of a coffin in a funeral home,
I suppose it is an honor but I feel doomed.
People passing say we are beautiful roses,
(not for long I am thinking);
then, a fragile, gentle hand touches me,
and pulls me away from the others.
A girl strokes my petals,
and holds me to her cheek;
I feel her tears falling on me like rain,
all day she holds me tightly in her hand;
often kissing my petals.
That night, she places me in a glass vase,
and I hear her weeping in her sleep;
in the morning I am a little droopy,
just a little weak.
I cannot hold my head up,
but she calls me beautiful still;
each day I am fading, withering- dying,
and I know my end is near.
Soon my petals fall, fall, fall
and the girl picks them up- each one;
putting them in a pretty bowl,
and that is how it went- 'till;
more of me became petals,
until there was no flower left.
Yet, the girl still touches my fading petals,
and calls me beautiful though I am decay
I want to tell her that beautiful is not my name,
I whisper to her- my name is love . . .
_____________________
July 7, 2020
Poetry/Personification/Beautiful Rose
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1266-602-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Written for the PREMIER contest, The Flower, The Thorn or Both
sponsor, Chantelle Anne Cooke
First Place
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
