Purple Rose

The velvet bloom, a regal hue,

A splash of twilight in the dew.

A solitary, purple rose,

Where beauty hides, a story grows.

Not red, the symbol of desire,

Nor white, of innocence set afire.

This rose transcends, a mystery,

A whisper soft on history.

In ancient times, in gardens grand,

It graced the touch of a royal hand.

A symbol of royalty, it's said,

Worn by a queen upon her head.

Legends speak of love's first bloom,

A promise whispered in a moonlit room.

A single rose, a lover's plight,

Offered beneath the starry night.

Perhaps it bloomed where battles raged,

A solitary bloom, on war-torn stage.

A testament to life's sweet hold,

A fragile heart, when empires fold.

The color whispers, deep and wise,

Of intuition and truth that lies

Beneath the surface, veiled from sight,

An inner strength, a guiding light.

The artist's muse, a brushstroke bold,

A masterpiece on canvas told.

In velvet folds, a beauty rare,

A touch of magic in the air.

It blooms in shadows, cool and deep,

A secret whispered, meant to keep.

A hidden love, a whispered vow,

Beneath the moonlit branches now.

The scent, a whisper, soft and faint,

A mix of mystery, no saint

Could quite resist. A siren's call,

Beckoning secrets, big and small.

The petals, soft, begin to fray,

A fleeting beauty, here today,

And gone tomorrow, like a dream,

A wisp of smoke, a silent stream.

But though it fades, the memory stays,

A touch of magic in the maze

Of life's complexities, a fleeting hue,

The purple rose, forever true.

So let us cherish this rare sight,

The purple rose, bathed in moonlight.

A symbol of all that's yet to be,

A whisper of hope, eternally.