The single rose from the bush
Emerged so crisp; so lush,
The twisted leaves and thorn
Suffocated, not adorned. 
The petals learnt and formed,
Wilt and point—forewarned. 

The dew came each morning
sun. The sun strapping, mourning
The beauty passed to bitter
Spikes—now ground and litter. 
Pricking the bigot's soft feet—
Quiet. Character of beat. 

Now the bush thrived over
The win of the rose of Dover. 
The petal head no more——
Just petals scat on forest floor.
3 Responses to “Rose”
  1. The rose (the individual), daring to push away from the conformity of its society and family (the bush), by claiming its own self-hood and persona, despite the wilting nay sayers and thorns (other’s judgments). The growth, life, and sun of the new day, is also the death and mourning, of the loss of innocence, dreams, freedom, independence, own mindedness, until the crowd of conformity completely erases the individual, and the single rose’s dreams, desire, will–fell, scattered, becoming mulch–like everything else trampled under the collective might of others, snuffing out the single beautiful soul.

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