The Language of the Rose

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The Language of the Rose

You gifted me a scarlet red rose,
Signifying our fire, our passion-
The color of both life and blood,
Sacred to both Venus and myself.

The crimson petals drifted softly to the ground,
A velvety floor beneath our naked feet.
The aroma drenching our bodies in the drunkenness of love,
Stimulating our eternally guarded lust.

From your hands emerged a perfect white rose,
In return for my purity and virtuous state.
For with this flower of both the moon and the water,
My innocence surrendered to your charm.

Yet tears inevitably swelled in my lamb-like eyes,
Your secrets slowly exposed by bright light.
Blemished devotion no longer concealed,
I remain to mourn my foolish thirst for truth.

You try to grant me a pale yellow rose,
An admission of your betrayal and deceit.
The soft shade of infidelity rests in repentant hands-
Your feigned gesture of forged regret.

Anger provokes my spoiled heart,
But golden foresight leads me from the pain.
No seen sign of envy or cowardice
As I strive to strengthen my roots.

Still, I bestow no symbolic black rose
Upon your ravenous, wily spirit.
Earned to perfection, yet not worth its fame
Now loose to wander and wait.

Rising above the clutches of a tainted bond
Though my sorrow still surges through
Hereafter knowledge and fortitude gained,
Mortality of love never again to be lamented.