The Opening Of The Rose By Terence O’Brien

The opening of the rose.

The meeting of the elements, proceeds to birth the flower of its scent,
a meeting so important as it strives for relevance, of life and senses.
A named rose with all to bloom for, admired by its beauty; never spent,
one that I feel is growing; eking away at my fortress of masculine defences.

Twas as the language to each other became more intimate; she did opine,
were I poor, without money; sharing half of my bowl of soup, will suffice.
This rose of mine, fragranced with words, eyes clear as the finest of wine,
the thorns of life mattered not; as me to she holds time and me in a trice.

So the first glimpse of Autumns long pregnancy, the wait is always worthwhile,
to smell, visually aesthetic, her shape doth conjure up my life for many a year.
Not for this rose a price to pay, each of my travails she did nothing mercantile!
Knowing that I will go into the forest of old age, with God; my rose, NO fear.

As her strength wanes too, I can be me, observe her family of flora, so tight,
loving her like I; differently as they were the gardeners of her allure; beauty!
Loving by nature this flora, would keep her within their bosom, tis all alright,
for once my race is run; with God on my side; I will be judged. What’s done is my duty!

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