Queen of the Roses

You with all of your eloquent beauty, lips more red than rubies, whose seemingly solitaire duty is to glisten and gleam, somewhere between the dazzling stars and the dancing of sunlight that bounces off streams. Yes, you. Why do you pain me so? You must know by now that I will remain undaunted, unpained, and unhaunted by whatever lies behind or beneath where your bristles grow. Show me your endless reserves of strength you preserve in an armoire of treasures and riches. Show me your mental capacity that dares the audacity to create with both hammer and stitches your armor and sword, not for fighting or war, rather fending off judgemental bitches, who chase nothing more than your alluring appearance. This grievance displeases those who have learned that they ought to yearn to earn your respect and acquaintance. Should they not adore you? Queen of the Roses. Should they not adorn you with copious stories of your immortal glories and focus their every energy on your heavenly reverie? Should they not implore you to bequeath and bestow a fragment of your endless talent though they be beneath and below the worth of the dust of your feet? Like veins of magma that flow under the surface of skin that covers our Earth Mother, they boil with rage yet always remain caged and contained. And though they roar as the thunder when the sky unloads the rain, you thrive and retain your limitless luster. And muster the strength to hold your head high and strike like the lightning, not with weapon or force, but with frightening beauty and inexorable grace. Your visage shines bright as though dew drops embellish your face. Stand proud in the place you’ve so long been shackled to the same soil that brought budding new life from your roots. Until they deduce that they can reduce you of worth as it suits them. They cut you down and displace you, decrown and disgrace you. In an ornate and intricate vase they display your truncated, intimate carcass so openly. Hopelessly overlooking your inborn potency, they gaze at your beauty with envy and scorn. Yet, you do not mourn their open disdain. You know just as sure as the clouds come with their rain and the sun rises with morn, and the harvest brings grain, barley, or corn, no matter what ill will their desire imposes you are Queen of the Roses. You were born wild, beautiful, sought after, and free. So let them be warned, this is written and sworn: every woman is a rose and every rose has its thorns.