The White Rose

He was never going to understand her.
Not while she feared to let him close.
He saw only her beauty, so pale and fragile
And in her heart, the image of the white rose.

Softly blooming, but only in darkness
Trembling petals, close to taking flight.
Peeling away from his lips, as he kissed her,
Her insanity now evident in harsh daylight.

The spirit that vanishes with the morning
Only serving now to attack his might.
Try as she may, she could not warn him
That her thorns still had their bite.

He chose her over all the roses
The garden he had tended fair.
Her sweet perfume, his final downfall
Her voice, a petal on the air.

He wanted all to see his lady
To see his love could know no bounds.
But the rose was blackened, and ugly and wilted
While his fingers only touched her wounds.

The white rose tried in vain to please him
Desperate for his loving touch;
But as he walked away in darkness,
She knew that she had lost so much.

The tarnished petals drifting downwards,
Forlorn, without her Raven above.
Wilting finally, never more to blossom
In the nurturing safety of the Raven's love.



Copyright © Victoria Preston, 2009
All Rights Reserved