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"