My Morning Rose

Each velvet sunrise is decrepit and vanquished reflected by her, a swan’s sweetest song is a hollow shrieking pest. Wealth’s chosen few covet lustrous gold in her hair; it traces bright canyons, breaching shores to rest. Gentle streams glide through her every word, her footsteps are restful breeze in summer skies. Her laughter spills sugar kissing autumn leaves, caressing bliss nestled in her eyes.

Poets and philosophers knelt far beneath her, masterworks were childish compared to her slightest sigh. I met her in meadows of this sequestered train yard, and longingly hold her in a locket of tides. Her gaze enveloped despondency’s slaves, euphoria chased their mourning and sparked a new day. Yet stars clung to envy as smothering winter fell, her radiance wilted like roses of serene grace.

Woodland fog anoints the child she’d be cradling, tinged with ice it illuminates my hair with grey. I pled each cathedral to reclaim a glimpse of her, but by your cruel season, Isabelle was claimed. My lovelorn prayers are but foolish ramblings, catacombs of shame and eternal rebuke. Years evermore spin on spiralling spindles, and hope’s bitter lanterns sleep in seas you’ve ensued.