The thorns hurt, but the rose was worth it.
I have been here for ages. My worn, stone arms reaching towards the heavens. It is tiring.
Decade after decade I have stood on this pedestal, watching the hedge grow. Rising above the flora I can see everything in the garden. Everything within the borders of the hedge.
I long to be at your level, to gaze into your eyes, to feel your breath on my cheek. Frozen in time I’ve observed your life in pieces, stages.
To suffer is to feel so much and yet feel nothing at all.
The seasons change, the sun dips and rises, and the stars slowly drift and dim.
I have seen poets come and go. I have been ogled by artists, my humiliation and shame of no consequence to them. My virtue taken and turned into vice.
When the rain comes, and it comes, it is my only solace. With age came the cracks and with the cracks came the rain. Its trickling rivulets sink into my skin.
The rose bush branches cling to my legs and ascend slowly.
The thorns hurt but the rose was worth it.
The flowers in bloom provide modesty with their leaves and petals.
Your gaze, your gaze. I only want your gaze. It is warm and it is sincere. It is comfort. It is understanding.
I am only stone, yet I feel ever so deeply. The pain and the beauty. Is it true?