Love: The Single Rose
A single rose lifts its crimson plumage
to the rising sun its blood-red petals splay.
Roots burrow deep,
enfold, encapsulate
the heart of the earth in their iron grip
and such warmth to thaw the icy ache of
loneliness.
The rose unfurls its leaves
that brush the skin so tenderly,
and its thorns,
so deadly sharp,
are sheathed in green and softness.
Love is like that rose that grows
amongst the desolate and the dead.
It springs from a source unknown
undiscovered
unwilling to reveal its secrets to
man.
If the rain kisses the rose
and the warmth of the sun engulfs it,
then it will grow.
But if it is not nurtured,
not cared for,
then the rain turns to tears
and the warmth becomes an icy
hate
and sorrow
and the thorns grow into bitterness
and regret.
And all that is left
is a dark, desperate
loneliness.
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