A rose bud
is a promise sent as expectancy.
A wonder-lust unto itself
of sensuous asymmetry
slowly sweet-writhing as opening.
A one-time tai chi ballet,
candidly sharing as presence.
Yet when cut at the stem,
although intended with sentiment
towards intimacy with delivery
and proposed with a sense of promise,
yet a rose, this rose,
never to realize
its fullness of bloom.
These petals as lips
immobilized from further song,
holding a note,
as fake-humming its melody.
Yet the prophecy per chance,
maybe still whispered
by its fragrance,
as a last stillborn gasp.
Vanquished to be a symbol
as a gesture, maybe in finality,
as an emotional
emissary
sent forth to embody.
But this rose,
must, by its own accord,
truly flower its soul ascension
though hushed
from its full bloom crescendo.
Yet maybe,
thought to be, by its passing,
with human hands in carriage upon it,
this precious life graciously given,
engenders for humans,
also, soul to meet soul,
an ascension of two spirits
towards their shared dance
from one rose of inspiration. . .
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