A Single Blood Red Rose
A poem inspired by roses that once grew in my garden
Blood-red roses,
grew in her garden,
day and day out,
their perfume wafted about.
Blood-red roses,
that delighted the eye,
grew graciously.
She’d often sit,
in the garden,
admiring their majesty.
Summer came and went,
quickly that year,
the roses that were so dear,
seemed to wither on the trellis,
until only one remained,
as the autumn leaves fell,
the rose valiantly held her position
all around in colors of -
orange, yellow, and red
One blood-red rose,
fighting to stay alive,
as the north winds blew in,
she watched from her window,
as that rose swung along,
with the winds swirling about.
It didn’t wither,
didn’t lay its head down,
she wondered when it would die -
sadly knowing that it must be soon.
Then one day,
the gray, leaden sky,
opened up wide
and silvery, lacy snowflakes -
came dancing upon the wind.
They swirled about,
in a wild dance,
soon a blanket of white -
was upon the ground.
She went to see the last rose,
there, upon the white snow,
was the blood-red rose,
like a spot of blood,
on the pristine white,
but she smiled just knowing,
that the rose would grow again
and be the queen of her summer days
About the Creator
Rasma Raisters
My passions are writing and creating poetry. I write for several sites online and have four themed blogs on Wordpress. Please follow me on Twitter.
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More stories from Rasma Raisters and writers in Poets and other communities.
Red Shelves
Death is a black hole. Think about it. A black hole is the corpse of a star, something once warm and bright, now come to the end of its life cycle. But some will argue that the cycle of life does not end with death. That death is merely another path we must walk once our bodies expire and our souls ascend. In that moment, when the fuel in the star’s chemical tank hits empty and the shiny matte coat explodes into supernova, the mass left behind – the corpse – becomes a black hole. We understand that, around such a vast cadaver, dimensions work a little differently in death to the way we’re used to in life. For example, light cannot escape the pull of a black hole when it hits the point of no return. That’s where it gets its colour. Space itself is contorted by a black hole. That’s where it gets its funny shape. Even time. Time slows right down the closer you get to it. The closer you get to a black hole. The closer you get to death.
By Matthew Curtis7 days ago in Humans
Comments (1)
Such lovely writing. Rose flower lovers would really like this one!