a rosebud
- May 27, 2016
- 1 min read
a rosebud:
innocent and pure
leaning and yearning
toward the burning sun’s hellish passion
a honeybee:
dark fur and dark eyes,
looking for beauty and something to put its name on,
some way to feel softness and warmth
amidst the dark life of public strife.
together they came,
the pink rose learning and
growing dusky
then slowly a glowing blushing
flare, sustained like a bitten lip;
the bee leading and rising,
watching the effects the young rose bore,
the results of its strength,
pulled toward the blossom’s contrast,
feeling shared innocence and sad youth,
soft and fragile like rosy cheeks.
they came apart only to find
an echo feeling left where they had met.
the rosebud was mauve
and the bee carried with it something heavy,
a certain feeling of responsibility.
the rose stood
amongst the grass
which day by day collected dew,
amongst green maple leaves
waving oblivious
as if everyone so desired to greet them,
amongst swollen clouds
carrying their blessings,
soon to be hollow.
she stood alone
remembering what it meant to be full.
she stood
alone
alone
somehow
more alone than before.
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