The Glass Rose
As I walk into the garden.
Wishing for some kind of pardon.
Flowers emerge from all the lies.
The many colors strain my eyes.
Every color lays in front of me.
Every shape possible I see.
My choice is endless.
My decision is hopeless.
For the only one for me is made of glass.
It is clear yet I still let it pass.
Why do I see through.
The only thing true.
My sight is blinded by the endless colors.
They could never be my lovers.
I am only drawn one.
Her beauty is never done.
It seems to always grow.
When my eye lids are low.
I sense her all around.
Though all I see is the ground.
Her scent is hypnotic.
Her love for me is platonic.
The rose is a myth inside my chest.
Yet the thorns wont let me rest.
It is something better left alone.
Still the seed is already sown.
From it grows the most beautiful being.
Through my soul the flower is singing.
Her glass pedals are thin.
Which means I will never win.
So I remain froze.
To the glass rose.
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THE GOODS
You're currently reading the poem
The Glass Rose, which
was posted on Jul 11, 2010 by
VictorCrown.
This is a solo poem.
About this poem
"Sometimes what is perfect doesn't even exist."
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