The Rose and the Servant

Through the symbolism of red — scarlet, cherry, flame, and rose — this poem explores how ideals once held dear can erode over time, leaving behind only quiet resignation and a hunger that refuses to fade.

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I am only hands.

Calloused, unseen,

moving quietly through silk chambers

and hollow courtyards

where ideals once bloomed

like obedient roses.

Red clings to me.

Not by choice —

but by heritage,

by stain.

Scarlet on my sleeves,

cherry whispers in my hair,

the flame of duty

coiled tight in my throat.

They wear red to conquer.

I wear red

because I was born

too low to choose.

I used to believe in grace.

That love could braid itself

into the linen of ordinary days.

But ideals crack

when pressed too often

beneath gilded shoes.

I have watched mercy wilt,

its petals trampled

by kings too bored to notice.

I have carried roses

to graves and wedding beds alike,

each bloom a mute witness

to promises unmade.

Now I know —

red does not sing.

It devours.

It flickers when touched

by fleeting kindness

but feeds best

on ache and repetition.

Flame is patient.

It does not rush.

It whispers in hearth and wound,

"Everything soft will burn."

So I tend to the ashes.

I bow to chandeliers

that do not see me,

I touch the rose gently

as though it might remember

the girl who once thought

scarlet meant love.

But I know better.

Red is the colour of endurance.

Of mouths kept shut.

Of beauty mistaken for worth.

Still, I hold it close.

Because even servants

have dreams too sharp

to let go.

And tonight,

when no one watches,

I will press the rose

to my lips

and taste bitterness

dressed as bloom.