Red Rose

April 21, 2008
By Gera Meyman, Mclean, VA

Shall I compare thee to a bloody red rose?
Handsomely dressed but with underlying thorns?
On its dull, green stem, so unsuspected by foes
Upside down and wilted it is when it mourns

Should I reach out, touch the pretty but disturbed flower?
Or let it sink deeper, dip and simmer in vengeance?
So that lilies and daisies may stay away or in fear, cower
For the hopeless things don’t possess the rose’s defense

Should I inquire as to why it hangs so, like a soft, dressed bell?
A rippled, mysterious texture, with layers of persona
That, if it allowed, I would peel back shortly and know it well
‘Fore it continues to brood, drooping and so sadly alone

I sit in front of my caged rose, staring only to find it stares back
Staring me down and turning rapidly charcoal from inside out
A blackness overtaking it and infecting me when I open a petal a crack
And in my brain, I suddenly feel the sensation of a clout

In this life, we start as tender little strawberries, defenseless
And then grow into thorn-armed, dark red, some darker, roses
That’s why often times I find my former extremist passion senseless
But it will take more to erase life’s beautiful fragrance from my nose

But for the mean time, I shall remain a bright red rose
Though not as bright as when I was but a mere strawberry
But I will dress my skin thickly in protective layers of clothes
Much like the petals on my rose bell, in life so necessary

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