The Rose and the Page
It lay between the lines of time,
A single rose, its colour dim,
Its scent still clung to broken dreams,
And love still whispered soft within.
The pages wore the weight of years,
Each word a tear the heart once shed,
Each verse a cry the soul ignored,
Each silence filled with things unsaid.
I turned the leaf, it sighed like breath,
A memory pressed, a vow once made,
The ink had bled into the stem,
As if the rose itself had prayed.
I felt its thorns beneath my skin,
They drew no blood, just something old,
A pulse of all I’d tried to hide,
A story time refused to hold.
And still it sleeps in paper folds,
A symbol of what couldn’t stay,
The rose that bloomed for just one heart,
Then closed its eyes and turned to grey.
About the Creator
Marie381Uk
I've been writing poetry since the age of fourteen. With pen in hand, I wander through realms unseen. The pen holds power; ink reveals hidden thoughts. A poet may speak truth or weave a tale. You decide. Let pen and ink capture your mind❤️
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Comments (1)
The poem itself is a preserved sigh, caught beautifully between the lines