The Lady and the Rose

The Lady and the Rose

She did not speak, yet the silence listened,

her face a fragile ruin of something once whole,

closed eyes holding storms beneath stillness,

as if feeling itself had turned against her.

The cracks ran deep through borrowed beauty,

veins of red beneath a pale surrender,

a breaking that refused to fall apart,

a suffering shaped into something almost sacred.

In her hand, the rose leaned toward her breath,

soft petals trembling against a fading warmth,

its colour too alive for the world she held,

a quiet defiance against her slow undoing.

She drew it closer, as if scent could save her,

as if one moment of sweetness could mend,

but even the fragrance carried a warning,

a sweetness sharpened by something unseen.

There were tears, but they did not fall clean,

they lingered, heavy, clinging to the edge,

as though grief itself had grown uncertain,

unsure whether to leave or remain.

Her lips, stained with a deeper red,

held the memory of words never spoken,

confessions buried beneath fragile composure,

truths that fractured long before her skin did.

The rose began to fade in her fingers,

not with time, but with shared surrender,

its softness folding into quiet defeat,

as though it too had tasted her sorrow.

She remained, suspended in that moment,

between breaking and something beyond it,

a figure shaped by pain and stillness,

a beauty that refused to be saved.

And in that silence, heavy and unending,

both woman and flower became the same,

held together by a fragile existence,

and undone by the weight of feeling.

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