Sunday, August 27, 2006

The Rose as Art?

Poetry is the written evidence of life. If our life is burning well, poetry is the flame, not the ash. Poetry is a mans' rebellion against being what he is not. Poetry surrounds us everywhere. But placing it on paper is (alas) not so easy as the reading of it. Poetry is the music of one's soul ~ above all, the symphony of great and feeling souls. Poetry is the art of substantiating shadows. I do not create poetry, I create myself. For the reader, the poems are but one pathway towards me...
The Rose as Art
In my hand I bear a rose, soft and red, single yet whole.
In a field of flowers I stand, beneath skies of vivid hues.
Sweet air I breathe, I breathe again.
Embraced I am by waves of color, by waves Of light.
My eyes behold In all its beauty, a lone blossom 'cross the field.
A splash of lips, amid endless seas of tears.
Within my mind Is born a thought, made fertile by desire.
Forsake but which? Partake of which?
This rose I bear? Or that which tempts?
I fear that should I forsake this rose, so rare, so fine.
For another I'd find Its petals frayed, stained, withered and dry.

No comments: