A Rose Un-pluck

Brace yourself for the long post ahead; A poem done by a good friend who earnestly implored me to not mention his name. I hope you all enjoy it 🙂

Here goes:-

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My thoughts grow eternal,

Kindred to sand grains swept up in a cyclone,

In twirl they rage reasons to risk it all, vexing reason to embrace that pang I flee.

 

A blinding mosaic that tenderizes a sigh into a smile,

A fiber warm, a gothic breeze in roam under the domain of Nyx,1

Beset eyes like twin a star, the apex of the sun’s way staring back.

I know I would, if only for the words to be spoken,

A rustle of right the syllables to escape thy lips,

I would toss out everything I’ve made my belief,

Assay to undo my present & become a being of my past,

A believer in pleasures of mortality. 

 

A beryl shining against the waning sun, a complete gorgeous splendor,

Dare not stare at you in the eye; to hide on state of shyness, a running lie,

In truth deep an atropine is the gaze, a paralytic to look upon,

 

Forever robbed of the nerve to come within her reach.

A lie for she knows she’ll cast you into stone,

On men of drive her fountain, waters that impart compulsion,

To kind and gentle her soul she thinks it but a curse,

Placed upon her cheek by kind hearted Mother Nature,

A restraint forced upon her at birth, an escape bound to only her demise.

 

In silence her heart bleeds without end, out of sight to kin and stranger alike,

Her person lost to every soul she meets.

Today she’s a sword, one of shining luster,

Cast in deep a biting flame, under hammer’s fall made unbreakable,

Her edges sharp to cut through flame,

 Yet reduced to contend with nothing but mystique,

Hidden & lost under a sheath, a museum piece

Adorned with beauty & written in a language lost, denied true her purpose of spectacle,

Deprived of her worth to grace the fields of war,

Tomorrow she’s a book,

A book unbound,

Forever judged by her cover,

Never a day to kindle interest from within the folds of her pages,

Her words of passion the golden writing on her leather binding.

 

I hate I know of her prison,

I hate I see the eerie expression on her face,

Yet so many blind to it, charged alone tastefully harmonious to her pain.

Most are the days I wish to unclasp the weights that hang upon her soul,

To write a tale about a savior, her liberator, while I would seek not to write up a knight,

One to ride into the battle white or black, wielding his sword,

Neither to write up a soldier, to light his mortar and be assured of glory,

Both none the better, bond to seek claim on beautiful her being at later a date,

I would write up powerful a god, granted the power to rewrite complete the world,

To blow the fog that blinds them to her true self.

 

I crave of her in the most innocent of ways,

Denied all ill intent,

 A desire bound, untainted a caress of purity,

Swathed by her company, I seek only to sit by her side, listen on endlessly to her tales,

Her words fountains of color eternal,

To paint my mind with images

On endless terrain I will listen to her words,

A musical harmony

My fortitude not to compromise under temptation, the syllable of her word,

Only to listen to her gospel and not fall in love.

Equally twin my eye I will bind in cloth or grant her the pleasantry of facing away while she speaks,

For in the marvel of her beautiful I seek not to be lost in her material attribute,

All her word lost to my ear as lost I shall be, deep in my conscious, my illicit thoughts.

 

Her mind once a loom of thread bound,

Shed, picked and battened,

Spun & labored upon.

 

“This scarf, the scarf I wear now, wound around my neck,” she says,

“An article I spun to wield and protect me from the cold winds of my insecurities,

As for these gloves,” Relinquishing the tight clench between she stretches her fingers,

“To veil twin my tender palm from the pat I seek no longer to feel.”

 

“What about the sweater?” I ask, “Does it also have a story?”

Her hands ran smooth down her shoulders as if cold a shiver runs through her spine,

“See once I watched a stunning cascade of streams,” She begins,

“How the water in meander crossed upon the gentle surface of the rocks beneath,

A conscious feeling of envy passed my thought,

Alike a graze upon my heart I would say, a stinging kitten’s claw to the skin,

I envied the rock swathed in the running waters,

So equally I sought similar a bliss and wound this sweater.”

 

“Like the rock I wanted to enjoy a wrap around my skin,”

Mine gentle in its embrace, touching ubiquitously every different fraction upon my skin,

To bind my body with a deep warm caress every time I pulled it on upon my person.

Although funny I wound the sleeves too long,

My arms a tin roof, the sleeves falling rain, running upon equal end, the print of every finger.”

 

“See my beauty has always encouraged the world to treat me like an object,

 Naturally it has given rise to the grimmest of questions regarding my person,

So in earnest too many a time I have sought out confirmation from equally broken a mankind,  

Still those in spiral of time have been my trials, now my victories like my thoughts lay in silence,

Only ever an expression,” She smiles,

“If they chose to make my life a mockery for their amusement,”

“A show of puppets then I wind the thread, the story’s puppeteer.”

 

I crave her in the most selfish of ways,

I twinge for her touch,

An attraction that looms above me, puffy an ashen cloud on a sunlit day,

Am I too different from the men of her past, nevertheless when a vice rages inside me?

My continued voice of conscience its prey.

Is my cause more the just when it compares so to theirs?

When a temptation runs its cause upon my words to be incessant syllables of lie,

Left only to hint of truth, when glory is placed upon my person.

I am too a fool for no repugnance floods my heart?

The fools who bind her in strings and guide her movements?

No, never, at least I am a victim, at most burdened by a lunacy,

A psychosis,

A lure, unexplained an attraction flays me deep.

 

I crave her in the most selfish of ways,

Her ways,

To lock her, tight in embrace, laying calm to her thought, my heart beat gentle to her ear,

Be a soul soft, a passionate white colour of nurture,

To offer a cuddle & invite a warm snuggle.

 

If tears to assemble at the canopy of her eyes, to stain dark her curtain of lash,

Drive reason to see a smile build from the seams of her lips,

If to wake in scare from dream to let mar the flesh upon my back in embrace,

I will comfort for grim the night with word supple & sweet lullaby.

Shield her heart when dim,

 ‘Tween passing beat, the binary of twinkling star.

 

In wreath of adore,

Dupe to the intrusion of all my senses,

Fall to her tempt and taunt, unable to fight the coax of indulgence.

 

In the congress of lone, push the thread curls off her face,

To stare at the light moon in her eyes & point the constellations, the being of her soul,

Like Mendel to study the gene of her creation.

Later in gag complain her lips of sweet red lure stained the collar of my shirt.

 

In bore; knock back of the same goblet, croon to the same song & laugh to silly somatic,

In smile warm at midnight flame and clink to twin glass.

Laughter in tune,

I will listen to her protest,

Denied reason mine, kisses placed upon her brow,

A trick to calm, describe her somatic, call her a goddess, the euphemism of her being.

 

If still to fear me, take my life & enjoy the sprout of flower upon my grave.

 

A rose un-pluck,

Nest in the rays of first light,

New a drop of dew fades away,

A bright reflect upon the seams of her petals,

To lock my fingers around her stem,

And let her thorns prick my flesh

Her stalk dug into the earth

In her whole,

Unchanged,

Uncut, perfect,

Not counting days to an oblivion,

In her most beautiful setting,

At her best stuck where her scent is eternal.

 

By Anonymous!

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