Roses

A Rose in vain

There was a rose, a woman
in her beauty she did bathe
Every morning she’d awake
with one thing on her mind
to make herself look as good as possible
herself she’d never forsake.
She combed her hair more than 50 times
and made sure everything was in place
with no regard for the time it takes

There was a rose, a woman
who blossomed at noon
the highlight of the days events
a slow and gorgeous process
no matter where she went
her aura began to glow
her smile was like the
oceans body, large
with a steady flow
Her motions were graceful
moving like the trees in autumn
and her scent was enchanting
even from her deepest chasm

There was a rose, a woman
who withered at dusk
time to tame the tears
she cries inside
the beauty is gone
and her scent, it’s now musk
her petals she stroked
in the early morn
50 times to her dismay
is now drifting to the ground below
turning from bright to grey

outward Beauty last for but a season
quickly passing away.
Pride of self should come from within
for death of true beauty does not decay
A rose is still a rose
whether in full bloom
or withered away.



African Rose

I once wrote about a rose in vain
Who was enamored with herself
Thought her beauty could cause no pain
And now I write about an African rose
Whose heart is filled with disdain

Rose, a young flower
Displaced from her native land
Removed from her heritage
Another number in the caravan
10 years in the wilderness she lived
Dark chocolate complexion
Developed beyond belief
Filling out apple bottoms
Thick young queen
We were her refuge relief
Before she arrived
She encountered a thief
I infer he stole from her
The only things she held dear
Stole her self image
Stole her identity
He even stole her hair
He left her completely bare
Stole her young body for himself
I wonder if she was another trophy
For his shelf
This thick in the thighs
Thick in the hips
Nice full lips
That he saw
Was just a kid
A child
A pre-adolescent
An ignorant innocent
Taken advantage of
And now she’s confused
And belligerent
Unruly, disobedient
Slowly becoming insolent
Always defiant
Rebellion is her new name
No longer is she a rose
Now a thorn on a stem
Dried out from insufficient rain
Tries to play childhood games
But gets caught up
In the experiences
Where she was slain
Thinks that she’s in control
But inside her has grown
A demonic sexual troll
Acts out those things he has done to her
Believes them to be the norm
Plays house with other little children
Touching them, humping them
Not knowing to do such things leads to scorn
Her attitude was forlorn
Now separated from all she’d known
Placed into an unknown home
In her heart no shalom
In her eyes a distant stare
She shows no care
Strong to be she tries
But can’t help to fall to her knees
And cry
Unable to tell the difference of
Love and lies
We tried
To lead her in the right direction
To accept her imperfections
We love her unconditionally
Through battles of insurrection
She is a blessing
In need of gentle caressing
But will down spiral into oblivion
If she’s not rescued
She’ll careen into destruction
We only wanted to give her instruction
Give her some structure
Before her blood vessels began to rupture
We were too late
The basura saturated her world
Detritus boiled within this little girl
She was tainted by the debris
And it’s name was he
Then became she
Who preyed upon my little ones
Unknowingly was she
And I became angry
Enraged at the fact that she
One of my new babies
Violated my other babies
Inappropriately
Fondling
As he had done to she
And we
Could not endanger
the rest of our family
and my rose continued to wilt
and I was filled with guilt
for the safety of all I loved
had to be rebuilt
without my African rose.