The rose war

A poem

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The rose war

The general, the hilt, and the rose.

I have looked beyond
the steel point of my pen
time and again
in search of highland
where I can rest
as one who is enough.

The wise terrain 
stands welcoming and wild 
and declares
I too am painted
with too many striking colors
to arrive in peace and dwell,
an invitation to war against 
what floats from my own mind
into this quiet place.

Stand,
draw,
and fight.

The side of my palm
a steady general
riding deep in the page,
curled hand a fist
that readies for battle,
thumb and fingers
cradle the hilt
of a sword
poised to strike.

Strike now with a cry 
arising from 
ancient armies
that march within,
war that echoes
from the cavern of
this writing hand,
echoes from the shadows
past each curled
rose petal finger,
a flower that trembles 
in the breeze,

and written word appears
a light aroma
that floats among thorns,
tearshed my only sacrifice,
tears that water the page
and the rose
with the knowing
that it is found
in the steel point
of my pen.

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Thank you for reading! What strikes you, speaks to you, or stirs in you while you read this piece? I look forward to whatever dialogue happens here, and as always, I will be following up with a Reflection essay on how this poem emerged into being.

Brian

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