Written By: Jamiu Ahmed
For God so love a girl, he named her Rose…
Rose is a sanguine bud — the rudiment of tomorrow’s Queen-flower — a fruit-bearer en-wombed by series of onion layers.
The garden is a home — the reflection of a graveyard where Rose lives to grow. So, when they ask, who’s in the garden? The response will be a sharp one: “A little fine Rose.”
Rose is a rare gem in the garden — waiting to shoot her stem —waiting to unfurl her silky petals like a pennon — waiting to spread her star-spangled banner up to the sky — waiting to become a tree of endless fruits.
Rose is a growing Eden — the promised land with timely-forbidden fruits. Rose gradually wears a new body of nectar-spine & a fragrance of sweet-scented bouquet — the odorous air of June from the orchard. Rose is a rose-water.
When butterflies & insects come seeking nectar — they whisper of rosy future — they say look at the world through your rose-colored glasses to see the rose-quartz therein — they say life is a comfy bed for Roses.
XVI, Rose isn’t Mary — but, an innocent flower girl — with maimed hymen & blood-stained garment — with Maidenhead despoiled by lewd fingers, that defies her prime. Her time is now a point in parenthesis — encased Period.
XVIII, Rose is a growing plant —nursing the unsolicited fruit of her labor — a budding tree grooming another bud.
XX, Rose, a tree harboring parasites — a mother of many flowers — worthy of being smelled but unbefitting to grace the golden vase. Wake up & smell the rose they say.
XXII, Rose is a pot of honey-beans. With wands & flies in line — taking turns to savour & steer the rosy juice, then lick-spittle, spite, spit & shit on the pot.
XXV, Rose is a bespoke & beloved flower with a cracked vessel — the broken water-pot from the flowing river — an open jar with amputated faith. Her shadow now limps behind her.
XXX, Rose is a roadside weed — growing in an unwanted field — bruised, battered, trampled upon & crushed by life’s heavy boots.
Rose, a once beautiful flower — now an embittered kola, tattered, withering & wearing off with Time — her life cycle. Period
Rose is now a fossil grain fading into dust & ashes bit by bit, till she hits Time’s Magazine.
Rose is a little fine girl growing in the garden — her home — her graveyard.
So when Rose dies, what do we place on her grave?
Jamiu Ahmed is a Poet, Playwright, and Civil Engineering Student of Yaba College of Technology. He lives and writes from Lagos. He’s a lover of art, Nature, bridges, and Towers. Some of his Poems have been published in Anthologies and by WRR Publishers and Poemify Publishers.
Photo Credit: Pixaby