Tell Me I'm Dreaming // poetry

8. Rose

As soft as silk, or softer,
and as rich, or richer,
spun between the weaver's hands
and nurtured by the gardener,
drowned in teardrops from the sky
and rooted in the by-and-by,
of lovers who knew naught of love
and fools who swore upon their love
to offer up that length of silk,
woven in a flower's form,
that, when handled, scorns the hand
with blood that drips onto the land
to birth another length of silk
and brings the love now unto sorrow
and the sorrow to more sorrow,
that the lover turns to other
or to neither, now no more,
shamed by heartbreak and its sorrow,
seeing now the fool's endeavour
that they took upon themselves,
and thus discards the blood-stained flower,
stamping on its dark memoir
and all the love that was not love,
and all the truth that was not truth,
and all the thoughts that still remain
in hopeless pain now wandering
so slowly through the vale of minds,
to reach an ever darker tunnel
leading to another tunnel,
spiraling yet further out
until the lover falls unto himself –

And still the flower lies with grace,
though trampled on the earthen ground,
and bleeding, shines with greater grace
and beauty incomparable,
without a doubt or shred of guilt
or any knowledge of its lies,
its bleeding face with darkness gilt
and mocking as though it were wise,
a smile dimmer than the night
and brighter yet than any light,
a contradiction carving love
into the image of a dove,
into the image of a rose.

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:D

- The Author (Whatever)