Author's Beginning Note Thingy: I wrote this with an idea of what I wanted, but no inspiration for it whatsoever, so forgive me if it's a little scattered/not good. Since I am obsessed withthe hideously symbolic rose from my Vincent's-backstory fanfic, that's what this is about. Enjoy (or not).
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Memorial
The once-fire of his eyes
now a sputtering ember, dies.
As they, behind dark lashes, close,
red like blood, like sun, like rose,
he heaves a final sigh.
Pale skin, so paper-white,
unmarred by the light.
Fine lips smile with no bliss,
at last embrace, a dying kiss.
And forfeit final fight.
A face like sculpted stone,
chiseled out from years alone.
Like a statue, there he lies,
memorial to a man who died
otherwise unknown.
Sleep as deep as death,
he takes in not a breath.
A stillness haunts him endlessly
a nightmare of of the one that he
could not save, and left.
He holds his roses low,
in the dark the flowers grow.
Amidst the beauty and the youth,
placed as a testament to truth,
which no-one seems to know.
A rose that served him well,
picked and preened, but still
a mere single fragile flower,
that lived but for an hour,
and all that's left: a crumbled blackened shell.