The Rose
This is not a poem about a rose
Nor a poem about diligence and beauty
Today, I sit and stare at the walls
Walls that bare the complexity of life
Every breath, every tear I shed in my room
Set out to pollinate every seed, every bud-
Life once - was the perfection of everything
Now, water drips as I drown in my sentiments
Sentiments that no longer hold meaning
I feel so empty now that you are gone.
This is not a poem about a rose,
Rather it may be I write about death
Death is a man with no face
A man who sits every night
Patiently, he sits on the edge of everything
Waiting and waiting
For the thorn to prick the stem of who I am
Who I used to be in hopes I end the suffering
Every night he sits at the bedside
Watching and waiting
As I gaze deep into the dark watery walls
I lost the strength and resilience in my eyes
Creating a dormancy that shuts out the light
In a place where darkness prunes itself another day
There and only there,
I draw the silhouettes where life once bloomed
The echoes of my heart still call out your name
A name that no longer exists by my side
Slowly musk withers into the air
In remembrance, you were once here
Perfection Gone "And a rose is just a rose"
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