Welcome to Gaia! :: View User's Journal | Gaia Journals

~A Rose~

It began with a seed,

very small,

a little water,

all it needs.

Yet the seed grew,

higher and higher,

first one leaf,

then two,

sprouted from it's stem.

Thorns grew,

from the sides,

inbetween the leaves,

the only protection needed.

The bud began,

very small,

growing larger,

until it was no longer a bud at all.

The rose bloomed,

like the feelings of my heart,

growing steadily,

an unending stream.

Petals upon petals,

crimson red,

blossoming larger,

beautifully still.

Water began to wane,

the rose began to die in pain.

While it wilted,

petals fell.

Soft and aromatic,

they took flight,

beginning their journey,

their unending plight.

Down to the ground,

faster they flew,

dead before they reached it,

covered in dew.

The flower no more,

drooped down,

just like the king,

had lost his crown.

Blood dripped,

from the bud of life,

pouring faster,

hitting the petals.

The petals drank,

the blood of death,

receding crimson,

to become whiter than death.

The flower began,

to drink the blood,

blossoming again,

but was it enough?

The rose was no longer,

crimson red.

It was now,

black as lead.

The petals cried,

tears with soft sound,

the smell so aromatic,

so romantic.

The tears fed,

the dead roots,

surging up the stem,

killing death.

Black petals fell,

the smell of soft decay,

upon the ground,

where they stay.

Blossoming rose,

petals blue,

fed by tears,

sad and true.

This rainy day,

did not last long,

death was back,

and he was strong.

He killed sadness,

drinking his tears,

surging up the stem,

filling it with fear.

Petals once again,

black as night,

eating off of,

the abundance of fright.

There they stayed,

basking in gloom,

but one again,

love must bloom.

The white petals,

upon the ground,

shaped into hearts,

beautiful and round.

Sinking down,

into the earth,

death thought he heard,

a laugh of mirth.

Heart met root,

and the roots fed,

the softness of love,

the secrecy of truth.

Death struggled,

for his hold,

love was something,

way too bold.

The fight lasted,

many nights,

petals falling,

growing white.

Love had a new colour,

bleak yet strong,

weaved within those petals,

a very sad song.

Until,

finally,

ribbons fo red,

so crimson and fed,

ran down the petals,

tainted white.

Love was now,

cursed more than ever,

it had drank upon blood,

and now the bond was too strong to sever.

Between love and death,

none could avail,

compromise was struck,

but was the rose beautiful?

As white as the feathers,

of a peaceful dove,

ribbons of red,

as rich as blood.

Many came,

to see it's worth,

never picked,

seen as the worst.

Until the maiden came,

too beautiful to speak,

reached down,

and plucked the rose.

This is the wonder,

of the lady of love,

who planted the seed,

and came back for it.