The Ember Rose

The Ember Rose

A bloom of fire and night,

Gold trembling on its stem.

Each petal burned with memory,

A secret born of them.

Black edges kissed the dawn,

Like ash that would not die.

The garden held its breath,

And time forgot to try.

It drank the rain in silence,

And never bowed or broke.

The sun adored its shimmer,

The moon returned its smoke.

No other flower dared near,

Its glow was too divine.

It stood in mortal shadow,

Between the root and sign.

It shone with knowing grace,

No other flower chose.

A heart of molten dusk,

The one they called the Rose.

Beneath it slept the echoes,

Of voices long confined.

Each whisper fed its colour,

Each sorrow redefined.

The wind would sometimes linger,

To taste its heated breath.

For beauty born of struggle,

Defies the hands of death.

Its stem was forged in silence,

Where endings learned to stay.

The Rose became the keeper,

Of what would fade away.

And still its flame remembers,

What mortal eyes can’t see.

The beauty bound in ruin,

The cost of mystery.