The Tale of the Lost Path

 

Along the bays of fine white sand tread a meadow,

like a valley within an island, a secluded heart!

Amidst all the green pastures of land roughly tilled,

stood a human nest built with my own hands.

Once I had tread through the maze-like forest

to find the wildest of flowers, rarest of the rarest;

Acres of land I had covered in the quest for

a pure soul; before ending up in a swamp of runners.

Tangled within a vine of lies, I saw a heart

that beats devoid of sins; any of the seven!

At the center of the epitome of a hurricane's eyes,

she stood prime; like a damsel of heaven.

Was it the grey matter in my head

or the pumping heart? I was confused as to what;

That which made me dig from the swamp, with her roots intact;

and to pace back home, quick to act!

It was always a sight to see

the way it stood apart,

In color, in beauty, and more!

It was always a delight to watch

the way it bloomed alone,

In heart, in the soul, and more!

It was always a bliss to witness,

as long as it lasted with time,

The Black Rose; nothing less, nothing more.

Not a day passed, without waking up to her 

lovely little petals that remind me of her smooth texture.

Not a night fell under the sky, without dreaming

of her thorns that lightly scarred my nimble fingers.

Through days and nights, the seasons passed.

Yet she stood by, calm and proud in a wrecking hell.

As sheets of calendars hit the dustbin, I longed 

for the thorns to shred off, but they seldom never fell.

As cold as the glaciers of the North pole, she turned

her roots away from my garden, still within sight.

Boon or curse, I am confused until, of this human cause

for ego, the lone thought that ruled my mind.

I threw the rose away, plucked right out of my land,

into the wild afar, and stared into my scarred palm.

Seasons passed again, and rain pelted over

the rusty roof; under which I stood alone with my guilt.

Grief settled in my land, the reign of ego battled out

by the loss of love; as it had no purpose at all.

Too late it is, I cursed my actions and searched

for the rose, all over the pastures and meadow.

In a quest I went again, the path was never the same.

I searched for it again, a battle already lost.

In the quest I went, pleading to the forest around.

To the shrubs, the vines; all things alive and not.

I cried my heart out, my words bleeding worse than the wounds.

I cried and cried, but the air stood still.

Of the thousand flowers that bloomed

in my garden later, none of them could kill her memories.

I paced my heart of the truth that is harsh,

that the rose was never mine to have, not any more so.

It was always a sight to see

the way it stood apart,

In color, in beauty, and more!

It was always a delight to watch

the way it bloomed alone,

In heart, in the soul, and more!

It was always a bliss to witness,

as long as it lasted with time,

The Black Rose; nothing less, nothing more.