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Dying Rose
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The Rose To die in pieces like a rose,
To slowly lose your vibrancy
And curl up at the edges.
Petals falling one by one,
And still her beauty exists.
Hung upside down to dry,
Withering, brittle petals,
Pressed into a book
For a chance to save her loveliness.
To die in pieces like a rose,
Must be bliss.
For even dead,
She is adored and cherished.
Perpetually elegant.
I really love this poem, though it reminds me of getting old. :)
Wow! While I hope that this is not the last poem in the sequence (it does sound rather final), I continue to be amazed at the implied metaphor, and at the economy of words that you deploy so deftly. The rose pressed inside the pages of a book?---could it be a book of poetry?---and is the rose an offering, perhaps, to some bygone poet's beloved Muse? And are the syllables of that poetry, on those pages where the rose is pressed, the verbal trace of that poet's muse's unshod footsteps across his soul? What will the rose now witness as it enters into a new phase of its existence, in the pages of that book?
Starward
I love your poetry, Beautiful the way you expressed it.