A Single Rose

Stone angels watch

her as she marches

slowly to a forgotten

monument ravaged by

the hands of Father Time

himself. A cold wind

blows through the

surrounding trees,

making the leaves

rustle gently.

A bird chirps sadly

in the distance,

its song so full

of sorrow and misery.

It was probably

a nightingale.

 

She stops in front

of the weathered

grave, her hands

caressing the

icy stone.

Her heart was

numb and devoid of any feeling. She

held a single red rose in

her hand,

her fingers

touching the petals

lightly.

Their very perfume

was sweeter than

the very taste

of honey itself.

She exhaled, not

a sigh, but a

single breath

of relief that

was also somewhat

sullen, too.

The tips of

her fingers

dance over

the thorns.

She felt a sharp

pain and gazed

down to see the

middle finger of

her right hand

sustaining a

minor, but bleeding,

wound.

 

Some of the blood

fell onto the

snow, staining

it a lovely

crimson color.

Blood on snow...

how odd.…

She sniffed the

rose. Her nostrils

flared, filling

themselves with

its ever-intoxicating

scent.

It reminded her

of a tender, warm

embrace she had

felt long ago

on a winter day

much similar

to this.

 

She left the

rose there,

leaving behind

the heart that

had been filled

with so much

love once before

long ago...

a love that began

and ended with

a single rose.

Author's Note

Very similar to my other piece "Cold Stone" and somewhat inspired by that.

Reviews

[.......]

Stone angels watch
her as she marches
slowly to a forgotten
monument ravaged by
the hands of Father Time himself.

I really loved this part, This is amazing!!
You have incredible talent.

[Kestrova]

This poem is beautiful and the words positively melt into each other, creating a rhythm that leaves the reader in awe.