The Silent Scream Of A Dying Rose
Life short yet romantically full
The Silent Scream Of A Dying Rose
He plucked the petals one by one,
His fingers slow, his grip secure.
The crimson folds, once kissed by sun,
Now trembled, fragile, pale, unsure.
I heard the flower’s silent cry,
The rose refused to say goodbye.
A whisper lost where love has been
A wound too soft, too small to be seen.
Each petal fell, a quiet death,
A stolen blush, a fading trace.
The stem stood bare, yet held its breath,
Still reaching for a vanished grace.
Then when his hand had done its will,
The rose lay torn, its beauty still.
Yet something in the air stayed,
A ghost of all the love that it had made.
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 (2)
Marie, You’ve captured the quiet despair of fading beauty and unspoken pain in such a important way. There’s something so powerful about the idea of a rose, often a symbol of love and vitality, turning inward in silence, echoing the struggles we sometimes face but don’t speak of. Great work.
Beautiful, Marie. Is the word “stayed” in the last but one line used twice deliberately?