The Red, Red Rose

true story, nouns have been changed to protect those involved.

The Red, Red Rose

 

The budding red rose

That beautiful flower,

Never does it hide its thorns.

 

The budding red rose,

Oh! Beautiful flower!

“I must have it for my own…”

 

I am not blind,

But ignorant instead,

The thorns, they cannot hurt me. I thought.

 

But it was my ignorance

That would harm us instead,

My ignorance that strangled the rose.

 

I reached to pluck the rose,

To have and to hold it for my own,

   My hand gripping tightly,

     But I could not pull it free,

Yet I would not let it go.

 

   I bled and I smiled,

     Standing there on the road

        Strangling the blooming rose.

 

As its gentle floral scent drifted aloft into the breeze,

Many others traveled by to see from what it could be,

Curious to see what they did see,

The rose in my strangling grip upon which I did bleed.

 

“I will share you,” bent on its Beauty,

I whispered into its petals,

“For others to enjoy your sweet renown,

is the only thing meant for this belle.”

 

But when it came time “Stand back! It’s all mine!”

I screamed aloud and thundered.

As others stopped to gawk in shock,

And turn away with a frown to the others.

 

And as I was left with my rose,

The rains came pouring down.

Shelter! Shelter! I thought to make,

To keep us safe from thundering clouds.

 

I could only think of shelter with the flower in my midst,

But it would not tug free of its roots

And I would not loosen up my grip.

 

Shelter! Shelter! I thought to make

To keep me and the rose from harm,

But all I had were the clothes on my back

So, I drew it in close under my jacket, safe and under my arm.

 

But the rose needed the rain,

to drink and cleanse itself from filth,

But all my ignorance could offer was my blood,

streaking down its stem to soil its roots in the silt.

 

Soon the sun broke through the clouds

Its rays filled with  true love,

And I, for fear the sun would burn its delicate petals,

sheltered the rose with my clothes and watered it with my blood.

 

But the flower needed the light,

to grow and grow, and grow,

And still I could not see,

that I was strangling the rose.

 

Travelers came and travelers went,

Passing us on the road.

I would hold the flower out for them to smell

Then, “Mine” I would claim, “This is my rose!”

 

Back into the shelter the flower was thrust.

Back into the dark,

Where its safety I did trust.

 

I was so happy to have it,

the most beautiful flower of them all,

But my ignorance did not allow me to see it wilt,

And wilting away,

Its petals did fall.

 

Pulling it free from my jacket,

its scent had faded from the air

its petals were limp and falling away,

And I cried out in wrenching despair.

 

Disbelief filled me then,

What have I done?! I thought.

I looked at the other blooming flowers

And knew then what I had wrought.

 

I struggled to let go of the rose,

My blood staining its stem,

With reddened ground around its roots

My love had been poisoning them.

 

With realization striking me cold,

What I had thought was showing it love,

Was merely me being ignorant,

Blind to the truths written in the stars far above:

 

That roses are to be admired,

   And cherished,

     And loved.

Precious sights along the way,

That must grow on their own

   In the rain,

     And the sun.

 

I backed away down that road,

With more than just scars to show,

Still looking back and hoping at last,

That the rose will once again grow.

 

And I hope that it’s still there

When I pass this way again…

   I hope that it’s still there.

     I hope that it’s still there.