I proclaimed myself your rose,
the flower you never chose;
the flower that lost its petals too soon -
though the rosebud was the first to bloom.
Rich colours I had always worn,
but few could withstand my thorns.
The beauty of the rose was hard to claim.
All the other flowers left when the rain came.
In your garden full of flowers never was I plucked,
but for you I still grew, never died. (I was stuck)
Season upon season passed and went
until I was the only flower you had left then-
through all the seasons all had died but the rose;
still, you waited season upon season for another (the enduring rose you never chose).
YOU ARE READING
A Series Of Events
PoetryI've found that I am most comfortable in discomfort and chaos, as opposed to serenity and happiness; probably because this broken part of me is all I've ever known. love, turmoil, desperation, infatuation, betrayal, death. these poems will contain...
