POEM | LOVE | SELF | REBIRTH
The Obsidian Rose
A poem of hidden, ferocious beauty and self-sacrifice.
These parcels of land are divided by a dirt road
On which Harvesters travel often.
They, in search of the choice bloom,
The flower which enraptures their dreams.
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Centered in a barren pasture,
Blood-soaked hands lower her still-beating heart.
Laid to rest in the shallow crater,
Concealed by glowing mounds of ember and soot.
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Across the road from her wasteland,
Endless rows of sunflowers sing and sway.
Extending their faces to the sun,
Proudly proclaim their desire to be seen.
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Run toward the flourishing sunflowers,
Take your pick, dear Harvester.
They are lovely, supple,
And embody the bliss of a sunny day.
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On her piece of scorched terrain,
Years of salty tears dampen the earth.
They provide drink to this cardiac seed,
Coaxing her heart to split and sprout.
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Her heart is desperate to grow life,
While needy to feel the wind.
Lusting after her Harvester,
She slowly crafts herself beneath the surface.
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Many sunflowers come and go,
Carefully selected, picked with caution.
Protected, nurtured, and watered,
They will thrive in their new homes.
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Seven years of seasons pass,
Finally, the soil is disturbed above her planted heart.
A blackened stem emerges,
Flecked in gold, razor-like thorns.
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As the onyx stem reaches for the heavens,
A rosebud of the same color forms.
Delicate yet morose,
The raven bud expands with each passing year.
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She forges a gilded cage of thorns,
A sphere of shelter around her bloom.
This wall of protection serves to warn any
Who may attempt to hastily pluck her from the roots.
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The sunflowers, with stems free of thorn or blood,
Engage in frantic dances of seduction.
She stands juxtaposed, stoic, seemingly dead,
Only to receive fleeting glances from the road.
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She can only hope the day will arrive,
A Harvester will wander onto her empty field.
Embers torch his soles as he approaches,
Yet he will dare to get closer, even still.
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Her serrated thorns consume his flesh,
Illicit blood and angst, yet he persists.
Resolute in his quest to discover her,
Disregarding his butchered palms, he unfurls her barbed cage.
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Once exposed, beneath her halo of obsidian petals,
He peers into the core of this savage flower.
Finding garnet petals instead of black, hidden from view,
Velvet, protected, enchanting, yet isolated.
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The Harvester observes thin veins of gold
Pulse life and passion into her epicenter.
All while feeding this rancorous exterior,
Designed to eliminate the weak-willed.
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In proving his worth, she will use drops
Of her liquid gold to seal his wounds.
To heal the hands of her Harvester,
Employing her aged magic to cure him in return.
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Until that day presents itself,
She will remain steadfast in her piercing enclosure.
Toiling away to strengthen what lies beneath,
Offering seldom glances to the sunflowers when tired.
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Should she want to be,
A sunflower in the crowded field?
Or should she embrace her lonely scarlet gift,
Yet to be discovered?
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