Once There Was a Rose

Once there was a rose sprouting from the garden fully bloomed, wet with dew, and as timeless as before the day it was born. Oh! What a rose, beautiful and virtuous, full of splendor; adored by me in many ways, looked upon with desirability and sparkle.

This rose stood strong through the whirling wind while absorbing the rain’s moisture as if poured—falling from the sky. She was so blissful, that the sun’s radiant heat only made her the more graceful. There in the garden, I spoke to that rose. She blossomed, I smiled, and our thoughts were transmitted to each other. Why stay in this garden? I asked! So, I placed the rose into my hands and picked her from the ground, whilst making her my own.

My rose was embellished with love; she was filled with my tenderness, zeal, and warmth. She was more admirable than silk, or even the enchanting heavens. How I loved thee so; but my rose was also embedded with thorns, full of ruggedness, coarseness, and having very tempestuous ways. Nonetheless, it did not matter, because my heart belonged to that rose.

Once there was a rose that made the daylight appear to last forever; and the night stars twinkle unrestricted. She made a gorgeous moon seem even more magnificent, even more vivacious.

Each day my rose was watered, and she rested in the best vase. I placed her on the windowsill where the sunlight gave her glitter, and my rose flourished. Time though is a constant creeper, and the rose begin to fade. I spoke to it, but she would not answer. I tried singing, but she refused to listen. When I attempted to comfort her, all my rose would do was turn away while gloom overcame me.

There was nothing I could do, I tried, but my mind cloudy; I was unable to conceive the extent of my failure. Teardrops filled my eyes, my heart grew faint, and my rose was standing alone matured, waiting on another. She was leafless and naked, withered and weak; my hands numb they were reluctantly tucked away.

Once there was a rose sweeter than cotton candy, lovelier than a swan floating on the water, fully bloomed, wet with dew, and as timeless as before the day it was born. When I entered home one afternoon my rose was not to be found. Its vase broken, only her stem laid on the floor damp and unprotected.

Unable to refrain from denial, I placed what was once my rose into a new vase. Each day I tried to have a conversation with it, trying to rebuild some strength, trying to nurse and nourish the stem of my rose. Even her thorns were beginning to diminish.

I had a rose that was once , as free as could be , a loving rose in my heart , a stimulating rose picked for its beauty.

Never again will I have her she withered totally away the outcome of that love should have been expected some day.

My rose was picked from the garden and its roots were of the ground, to place it back was not a problem for that is where the rose was found.

Precious rose I loved you so much it was I who displayed you for all to see the windowsill was your pedestal but my desires were not to be.