Rose Offered To Stone

I wrote this quite a while ago when someone I knew had a great loss, and she never got to say a proper goodbye. Read if you like.

Those last pages,
that lay upon the bed frame,
you don’t think its finished,
but it’s done all the same.

A dead rose,
wilted and black,
isn’t it the thought that counts,
not what it lacks.

Plant a rose,
within the stone,
one for all the rows.

For the lost lovers,
and those never planned,
that fate indeed discovers.

Your tears start,
and they will not end,
lost and never known,
that one that you could have called friend.

The tears always held back,
and words merely hinted,
words that wanted to be said,
but ended up only being printed.

Pages behind the pillow,
that depicted stories untold,
but never able to put in the last page,
you wished for things to unfold.

Lay a page upon the pillow,
his warmth has fled,
the story will never finish,
and never be read.

Upon the bed,
his story will live on,
bound with tears shed

Plant a rose,
within the stone,
one for all the rows.

For the lost lovers,
and those never planned,
that fate indeed discovers.

We wish we could travel between,
the planes of life and death,
to tell them our final words,
but we were simply out of breath.


Our tears creep out,
and block the final words,
drowning out our voice,
that will never be heard

Written in the stars,
the fates do author,
are the stories never ended,
but acceptance is what you hope for

Plant a rose,
Plant a rose,
Plant a rose,
Plant a rose,
Plant a rose…

His star,
will be the punctuation,
of a story so much greater