Who taught the rose to bleed
before it bloomed?
What god lit candles in her eyes,
only to blow them out at dusk?
She was dawn, once
a soft whisper wrapped in skin,
breathing verses the stars had forgotten,
now she sings only in silence.
Beneath her feet,
a sea of red whispers,
roses with mouths sewn shut
by hands too rough for petals.
And the thorns?
They don't ask, they take.
They trace lullabies into scars
as innocence weeps into yesterday!
Do shadows cry for the sun,
or just mimic its warmth
as they dance on broken walls
built by those who feared light?
She stands,
eyes holding storms,
cheeks a riverbed for lost lullabies,
as the silhouettes of those
who watched... reach.
Too late.
She,
a girl carved from morning dew,
now walks with ghosts of not-quite-men
who never knew the weight of her NO!
And still,
the world claps for the thorns,
crowns them with petals,
writes songs in their name.
But who mourns the rose?
