The Rose


~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 drops 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 on the bedside
Watching and waiting
As I gaze deep into the dark watery walls
I lose 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 - the musk withers into the air
In remembrance, you were once here
Perfection Gone -
~And a rose is just a rose~

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