Poetry

This immortal rose that lovers seek
will be glimpsed by all in youthful peak
for her presence will be on every corner.
 
And those who confuse that heady perfume
with a lust for love,
will only find winter in an unknown heart
for beauty was always a fragile thing.
 
 We who have seen this gift from above
will always get burned by its light.
The poet and the painter
have perfumed our existence
with loves testimony to this.
 
The pain and tears fall on empty shield
 for love will break your heart
but when we reach out to hold the rose
picked from these fields of hope,
a moment in life unfurls,
 love will kiss your soul
and the world belongs to you.
 
Fleeting are the petals of time
the rose is a symbol to love.
For others it is the pain of life,
to find and lose this immortal gift
leaves a desert where life cannot breathe.
 
 The laughter replaced by silence
the smile that is kept in darkness,
the kiss exiled to the memory.
 
Love is lost in the deepest pit
of your despair,
the thorns will bleed your soul red
but she can never die.
 
Love will always leave a spark
that will lead you to redemption
and only death can take this from you.
 
The rose was never yours to pick
but its creation yours to admire
for your being was made for this.
 
And as our mortal bodies die
 the spirit will seek the rose once more
for in death its petals fall too
blessing the ground of your resting place.
 
The rose was always yours
and its beauty a source of life
the chains of doubt will always
break in its presence.
 
The rose is pure
as is your faith in mankind.
It can show you a deeper meaning
for you are the petals of life
she is the perfume of your existence
 and it is you that made her life complete.