The dried rose

It tells a story of its own,

It’s an open book

With some pages torn…

The soft petals, echo a tale,

Of promises as frail,

As a silken thread.

Like the yellow leaves that have shed,

From the mighty old trunk,

Standing tall and strong,

Supporting those nests that blossom,

Embracing them tight, in its bosom.

Those leaves lament, and yearn for

A touch that has been lost before.

They were crumpled beneath merciless feet

Like emotions choked by ignorance.

The feelings didn’t fade away, they were just hidden,

Lost into eternity, like the lingering fragrance,

Of that once sweet smelling rose.

The bright vermilion red colour,

That lead to a thousand fantasies,

Of adorning the parted hair,

With the same vermilion…

But those are now just chapters closed,

With endings abrupt.

The dried rose in that book,

Indeed, brings back memories

That had been buried in a dark corner,

Of the heart, that itself,

Has been broken into a hundred pieces.

A poignant drop of saline water,

Falls from the misty eyes,

There’s an ache in that blood pumping device,

That pains you, yet you desire

To succumb to it and transcend into those

Unfulfilled dreams.

But the gentle breeze that caresses your hair,

Reminds you of the realities of life

Like the rose, that has withered with time,

Like events and deeds, that can’t be undone,

Like those treasured memories that have now sublimed,

Like the indiscreet nature

That made us forfeit,

Life is about moving on and filling the blank pages of your book,

With some chapters, meant to be incomplete…

©Tisha and The Brainy Essays (2020)

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