Rose

Rose He grew up lonely with his soundless shadow, Like a star, in the middle of a far vast meadow, A low light twinkled from his shack’s window To tell about his sullen solemn presence, All night, he slept, but the light remained a reference, A deliberate language to declare his presence, A spirit of a person in a far-off existence. Wreathed not with the joy of a guest’s sight Enduring his motionless future fairly light. A roving girl saw him once, once no more, Yet still imagined his scene every morn and night Tempted by affection and pacified by her right, Unexpectedly, she knocked at his ancient door, Then left leaving a red rose on the blackened floor, While he was in bed before the rise of an earthly sound, ‘Thank you, lover,’ cried he for the rose he found, Then ate the petals sitting on the cold ground, He was forever amused by their slight bitterness, To wilt in a vase, to him, was of bitterest sadness, Full of life, every morning, he ate an acrid flower, On the door, he fixed a note welcoming the stranger, whispering to himself,’ The note is much better.’ Watching all night was a desire, even more than love, spending most of the night outdoors in cold weather, Until the day he didn’t find his passion’s motive, He yielded to his old life, yet so eager to live excusing her every morning for her realistic decision after all, He never knew what people in town did say, About the death of a girl in pursuit of a rose, In a wild land, she fell and fell and never rose, For him, he regretted eating the roses, petals and soul.