You once had a blossoming rosebush. Lush with periwinkle peonies, baby blue baby's-breath, crimson carnations. You plucked a flower for me, a rose so beautifully breathtaking which you compared to my own flawed features in the most poetic prose. I graciously accepted your gorgeous gift, careful that my fingers wouldn't graze the thorns which adorned the deep green stem. I held it close, embracing your token of affection with a pounding heart full of humbly hesitant adoration. But I picked apart the pieces, I skeptically played with the pretty petals. I analyzed their cajoling strokes of coaxing color until the flower wilted warily. And when I asked you for another, your face flushed and your truth trembled. You led me to your rosebush, which was now an utterly dull disappointment. For I saw then that you had wasted away all of the flowers on girls just like me, destroying the beauty which had once flourished in that tempting rosebush, and now you had no more love to give me.
two roses- growing in the same bush- surviving off the same soil- growing into something beautiful- becoming something greater- growing as one
the sun- shining bright upon them- encouraging their growth- lighting up their future- calming their senses- kindling the passionate affair- moving them closer together- more intimate and dear
the sun neglects its obligation to one of the roses- refusing a light source for the bloom- leaving it wilted and begging for nutrients- brown and fragile- dying as the sun proceeds to rise over the other rose
the second rose continues growing along with the sun- in spite of the downfall of the latter- almost mocking the lesser decaying bloom- because it has a source of light encouraging its growth- safe and sound- not giving any pity to the rotting flower beside it- soaking up its own source of light- and not sharing any rays with the decaying blossom- rendering it useless and unwanted
the selfishness of the one rose- refusing to share its sunshine with the latter- results in solely one rose- instead of two roses
When I forgive the monsters among the trees, my petals will grow dusted pink-- These days, I have become a skeleton made of thorns, An unbloomed rosebush stark against the gentle green. Sometimes I see sunlight beyond the thick-leaf canopy, Splintered by branches and trunks more mighty than I may ever grow, And I recall the sweet and far flowered days, wet with morning dew. The monsters came in summer heat with clouds for tails and roots hard as stone-- They trod rough on my leaves and stole my roses with grinding teeth, And left me naked among oaken giants. Six flooded springs have passed, though every dawn breaks cold, A suffocating haze, thick as if the sky itself fell to weigh me down, How slowly fog burns under the rising sun.