The Poem of the Rose

The Poem of the Rose

The rose lay quiet upon the page,

pressed between longing and age.

Its colour deep as old goodbye,

holding things that never die.

Each petal folded into thought,

keeping stories time forgot.

Ink wandered beside its bloom,

giving silence room.

Someone once held it with care,

left their heartbeat resting there.

No grand speech, no perfect close,

only a letter and a rose.

Days passed through changing skies,

dust settled where memory lies.

Still the flower refused to fade,

keeping the promise it once made.

Its edges curled like tired hands,

its beauty ignored commands.

Not fresh, not bright, not new,

still carrying something true.

Words beneath had started to blur,

the paper thinner than before.

Yet one line remained somehow,

strong enough to survive now.

Love does not always arrive in spring,

it is not a shining thing.

Sometimes it dries and changes form,

still keeping a quiet warmth.

So I left the rose where it belonged,

among old pages and unsent songs.

Some things do not ask to be saved,

only remembered.

#Marie381UkWriter