Young Writers Society

The Blood Red Rose

A man doth gives his wife a rose,
On one knee and in marital prose,
A ring in right hand,
And rose on the left,
A rose without thorns,
And coloured blood red.

Found on the garden of his family home,
Now run down and tatty, as none do own,
The garden unkempt and without a second glance,
The rose a beacon, to onlookers, and goers past.

The rose for his wife was carried afar,
The passenger seat of a brand new car,
The man elected to travel another way,
On metal tracks and speedy carriageway.
In earnest he had gone to seek another,
A small little child, and model mother.

The rose did know this, and revenge it sought,
Bring wrath upon the cheating man,
Of murder and mayhem the rose had thought,
The car crashed into great large spruce,
Off the motorway, through the rails,
The car, split in two.

The police did find the young brides body,
Several feet away from the car, all damaged and shoddy,
But the rose looked on, without a care,
Neither damaged nor broken,
Just lying there.

The phone call received later that night,
The man had returned home, and to his despite,
Not soon after, the police came to his door,
And shorter still, the man was in uproar.
The woman he loved was gone from him,
The rose had clamed one victim,
But later into the cold winter months,
He had gone to the other woman,
All kisses and hugs.

The car removed, long gone and erased,
The rose lay still, unchanged and dismayed,
It knew its picker well,
The man who had grabbed it, his blood its thorns did spill,
And with it came his memories of ill,
His cheating, his gambling, and of illegal pills.
The rose lay down at the side of the motorway,
Unable to interfere, and there it must stay.
The wind could not shift it, and soon the gardeners will come,
Moving grass, removing the leaves and destroying the bud.

But only the bud.

The winds had blown the petals strait off,
Gone to the winds and soaring above,
A group they travelled, far and wide,
The new woman’s house,
Near the seaside.
Into the ground they flew,
Splitting, separating, breaking in two,
In time they would grow, into rose, anew.

With time…

The woman left home with child and pram,
Gone was the cheater, the liar, the bad man,
Made her pregnant, not she, but another,
The woman was stolen from who else, but his brother,
The roses had seen all,
The quarrels, the fights, and all of the brawls,
They made a vow, did the roses,
To stop the foul man,
Gone will he be,
To live with the damned.

He called to collect his remaining belongings,
The roses in waiting, cold and lethargic,
Assuming a rather innocent position,
They watched and waited, full of hatred and aggression.
The man, appealed, picked a rose,
And though this time, not to propose,
Upon answering the door the man did surrender,
Another blood rose, to his ex’s contender.

She refused, and the man, dismayed,
Returned home to his girlfriend,
All wild and crazed,
She had been cooking, and the gas cooker, still alight,
Caught fire to the towel, to the carpet, and the fight,
That the new woman and the man were having this night,
Blocked out the noise, the rapid spread, of the all consuming fire.

The fire spread to an uncontrolled rage,
The house was burning, spreading, without restraint,
Upon realising, the couple had quickly ran,
But the door wouldn’t budge,
The rose, had them trapped.

The man broke the window and the fire blazed,
Consuming the man, the woman, and the rose in flames,
The stairs collapsed and the fire spread throughout, in the space of five minutes,
The rose-rage, will out.

The fire fighters came to the rescue, too late,
A fire fighter, a woman,
Found to her dismay,
Among the ashes,
A blood red rose,
Unharmed, undamaged, and unfrayed.