RED ROSE

I live in this dull present carrying the red rose of life,

It grants its pain and torture through its just apparent beauty,

Seemingly innocent it speaks the mind of the devil no less,

As I tighten my grip over its thin stem, the palms of my hand bleed with regret,

My breath hitches as my soul mourns, for a life that could have been,

For the flower I could have held till death did me part,

Perhaps that flower, blessed with no thorns, could have granted all luxuries ever yearned for,

just soft petals, with no darkness to dispel,

but only success to offer and love to give,

That flower of life given to all but me, and this I rue with every fibre of my being,

Why exist only to be given the flower that kills,

One that presents nothing but struggle,

One that serves a reminder of miserable luck.

While others live the life I could have had, the prickling hurt suffocates,

As my hands go numb, endlessly bleeding with no hope of liberation,

Tears flow down the eyes that stare at the alluring red rose,

The same rose that hides the liquid red that drips underneath its enchanting head,

Holding it stands a body still lost in a trance, creating a mirage of ecstasy to the passerby,

With the soul shattered, the mind constantly wanders to what could have been,

 had I been given anything else, but this rose that killed.

                                                                                                                     -MARYAM