The thorn of the rosebush has its own beautiful aspect. . .
displayed hung famous tapestries
resplendent with the Rose
chatoyant colors like chameleons
changing day to day
the reds to pink
orange epimorphed to coral
peach and pearly white
the red for love, romantic
bleeding heart – erotic passion
paralleled by none
though orange stressing fervor
waits in the wings
while coral calls for cautiousness
desire with restraint
That yellow bud is just for friends
while peach shows gratitude.
Yet, when love ends
the rose still sends
its messenger instead
expiring love, the empty bed
the faded rose is dead.
The sentry stands
undaunted, fast
inseparable from the stem
that long appointed sentinel
the thorn that never dies
with all the buds interred
love dies with all of them
It stands erect before the tomb
its colors, stately, trim
the bayonet remains afixed
protective of the bloom
unwavering, from base to tip
as steadfast at its post
protective of the crimson heart
as of the ruby lip.
As buds return from Winter's sleep
the thorns their watch sustain
protectors of their queen, the Rose,
as dauntlessly remain.
When loves lives on
when one is cold,
another is reborn
a greater passion,
eager, bold
a renaissance – the thorn.
Poetry by NotaDeadPoet
Read 523 times
Written on 2007-01-26 at 18:55
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A Guardian – the Thorn
Amidst all flora's galleriesdisplayed hung famous tapestries
resplendent with the Rose
chatoyant colors like chameleons
changing day to day
the reds to pink
orange epimorphed to coral
peach and pearly white
the red for love, romantic
bleeding heart – erotic passion
paralleled by none
though orange stressing fervor
waits in the wings
while coral calls for cautiousness
desire with restraint
That yellow bud is just for friends
while peach shows gratitude.
Yet, when love ends
the rose still sends
its messenger instead
expiring love, the empty bed
the faded rose is dead.
The sentry stands
undaunted, fast
inseparable from the stem
that long appointed sentinel
the thorn that never dies
with all the buds interred
love dies with all of them
It stands erect before the tomb
its colors, stately, trim
the bayonet remains afixed
protective of the bloom
unwavering, from base to tip
as steadfast at its post
protective of the crimson heart
as of the ruby lip.
As buds return from Winter's sleep
the thorns their watch sustain
protectors of their queen, the Rose,
as dauntlessly remain.
When loves lives on
when one is cold,
another is reborn
a greater passion,
eager, bold
a renaissance – the thorn.
Poetry by NotaDeadPoet
Read 523 times
Written on 2007-01-26 at 18:55
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
