The Rose is Dead
The Rose...
of blood-red hue,
whose dusky fumes embrace the sultry night air,
is contemplated
by the maiden of long hair,
with eyes as moist as the grass she treads on
and with feet, white and bare.
...is dead...
dead without you,
deprived of love’s water that failing to supply,
the sun betrayed her.
She bows low, gives up the sky
to kiss the diabolical angels,
with a billowy sigh.
...without love’s quenching water...
she is consumed
by unseen flames that lick, scorch her petal skin.
She stiffens, blackens,
like a soul destroyed by sin,
‘til a husk is left of youth’s life stifled,
to dust akin.
Her tomb is sealed.
Pressed between lover’s words
of the virgin dreamer’s verse,
never to be heard,
or seen fall
from the lips of the redeemer unfound.
The Rose is dead without love’s quenching water,
of blood-red hue, dead without you,
she is consumed, her tomb is sealed,
in a rose filled room, smelling of
death’s bloom.
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Submission Name: The Rose is Dead
