The Yellow Rose

They say the yellow rose is a symbol of friendship.

I see it, I guess, a drop of sunlight deciding to stay with the petals it befriended until one of them wither. I see it.

I see the grass, the mints, the weeds, whose brethren lay growing and rotting in the same heave. Yet, there it was, my friend, mounted on the pedestal of thorns, leaves still fresh, stem tinted orange from its brilliant light. I see the fibers, its blood vessels or arteries: doth the blood run away or back? The little rose rising beyond the overgrowth, shades brighter than any princess’s dress.

Some tried to paint my rose pink, and I was flattered by the effort, but realized the gold was much better than the indecisive hue. So I detested it, so I see it still: the yellow rose live for others more deserving.

Some joined me in my fellowship amongst the grounds of the rose. My spirit rose to meet their song, their words, their love: all I don’t deserve, I thought. At last, I thought, I’ve found my home. Then my eyes went adrift to catch the sun still setting soon.

The songs have numbered days, and so do my rose.

I know that, remembered the very first rule, that all that’s gold won’t stay. There’s no glass jar that can defend from time: my rose, one day, would also burn, be frayed and decay.

But would my mind and memory, armed with my pen and ink, forever etch the rose in prose, so least my hand remember?

Even if my hand only remember the pains, that would be enough.

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