The rose began to wither, in
her heart of woven gold,
the ocean melted in her eyes
for stories never told.
The window shone the morning bright,
not once did she look there,
the darkness had become her and
the rose, at last, was bare.
The bluebirds flew about the day,
the air cut like a knife,
and all the while a single rose
lay weeping bloody life.
For no one knew the rose had died
and left a heart of black,
except the girl with ocean eyes;
a train run off the track.
The gardens coloured in the world
so full of joyous spring,
and daisies spread along the path
as death came wandering.
The children danced in rosie rings
while men laughed at the sky,
yet, there she lay upon the bed,
a light about to die.
And as the days became the years
her rose grew back once more,
a rose of black and white, this time;
a life unlike before.
-Brooke Cutler, 2018

2 replies on “The Rose”
So beautiful and lyrical! I’m quite envious of your gift for words. I can see the poor rose slowly dying as children laugh and can’t help feeling pangs of sorrow.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Aww, Kat ❤️ That means an awful lot coming from such a beautiful, heart felt writer such as you. Thank you for saying those lovely things. I do wonder if I have anything to do with the words that come out of me, half the time. Often I seem to disappear, and when I come back…something’s been written. Quite strange how all the magic of creativity works. ☺️xx
LikeLiked by 1 person