There are stories
one can recount
of roses in the deep
escalating toward the light
which burns with incandescence
imparting the strength needed to rise beyond
the gloomy hollow

And when their petals
soak in the torridity of this rubicund gyre
it is like love
drizzling from above in shower of molten gold
searing down the stable stem
and burning away the opposing thorns
that would only prevent the reciprocation
the blooming of the solitary soul
of the amaranthine love
of this beauteous rose

But there are also stories
one can recount
of roses in the dark
whose petals evanesce back to the deep
and are left with only the insentient stubs
of what was once pulchritudinous
with the vindictive deprivation
of the murky clouds
of fallacy

It could be months
maybe even years
before the insular fog can finally disipate
and expose the silver disk
upon which is rebounded
the ambiguous incipience
of a faint sprinkle of electrum
on this blooming beauteous rose