Once Forsaken

Image by jggrz from Pixabay

I am the bud and the blossom, I am the late-falling leaf.- Paul Dunbar The Paradox Poem

Is not the velvet rose always seen 
As soft as a summer night’s breeze, 
Yet once dried their piercing thorns
With emerald leaves tattered and torn 
Become knives that cut all too soon.

Blood spilled from the opened wound 
Is as red as crushed perfume petals
Falling as they budded and bloomed
While they flourished among summer nettles.

And if I, my darling, am the perfect red rose
Lying upon your silken bed in such sweet repose
Are you a honed knife that cuts straight to the bone
Will you leave me to bleed in your bed, alone
But should you do so, my love you must know.

Once forsaken, I will not accept my heart’s bitter blight
I will be the cold moon that chills and the hot sun that blinds, 
I will be the ink black night that offers no shelter to hide 
While your tortured soul endures your desperate plight.

©2021 Linda Lee Lyberg

dVerse Poets Pub Poetics: Beyond Meaning

Linda Lee Lyberg is a wife, mother, artist, published poet and author. She resides in Mesa, AZ with her husband Pete (aka The Big Viking) of 24 years and their latest rescue, Jackson “Jax” Lyberg. Linda writes various forms of poetry, as well as short stories. You can read more of her works at: charmedchaos.com and view anthologies containing her work here: Amazon Author Page

25 Comments on “Once Forsaken

  1. ah the paradox of the rose – it draws us into its beauty and perfume and draws blood too- you have captured it so well here and then you switch into personification with all the passion of the red rose but hell hath no fury…the finale

    Liked by 1 person

  2. This is absolutely stunning, Linda! 💝💝 The paradox of the rose is underlined with such finesse in this poem. I especially admire; “Are you a honed knife that cuts straight to the bone.”

    Liked by 1 person

  3. You’ve captured the paradox of nature in this poem, Linda, the two-sided essence of the rose. I experienced spiteful rose thorns when I was a child and, although we have roses in our garden, I have never been able to grow any as beautiful or as lethal as my grandfather’s. I love the way you used the rose as a metaphor for vindictive love and particularly the lines;
    ‘I will be the cold moon that chills and the hot sun that blinds,
    I will be the ink black night that offers no shelter to hide
    While your tortured soul endures your desperate plight.’

    Liked by 1 person

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