The Rose and the Page

The Rose and the Page

It lay between the lines of time,

A single rose, its colour dim,

Its scent still clung to broken dreams,

And love still whispered soft within.

The pages wore the weight of years,

Each word a tear the heart once shed,

Each verse a cry the soul ignored,

Each silence filled with things unsaid.

I turned the leaf, it sighed like breath,

A memory pressed, a vow once made,

The ink had bled into the stem,

As if the rose itself had prayed.

I felt its thorns beneath my skin,

They drew no blood, just something old,

A pulse of all I’d tried to hide,

A story time refused to hold.

And still it sleeps in paper folds,

A symbol of what couldn’t stay,

The rose that bloomed for just one heart,

Then closed its eyes and turned to grey.