Silk Roses
By Dave
These roses bloom but never grow,
their velvet petals soft, unbroken,
a perfect stillness—
crafted to last forever,
but never to change.
No rain has kissed them.
No sun has warmed their stems.
They hold no fragrance, no bees hum their secrets.
And yet, I cannot look away.
Their beauty whispers: stay,
but never asks for more.
I placed them in a crystal vase,
their colors frozen in time.
They drink no water, yet they endure.
I wonder—
what is the cost of living this way?
Roots buried in air,
thorns that cannot pierce,
love that cannot ache.
What truth hides in this unyielding bloom,
in leaves that do not bend to the wind
or shatter with the weight of chill?
They do not fade.
But neither do they grow.
They do not ask to be touched,
to feel the soft edge of a trembling hand.
They stand immaculate,
while something real waits elsewhere,
fragile and unadorned,
aching to be held.
I ache, too—
for roses that bleed into the earth,
for blooms that fold under the weight of time,
for the wildness of petals undone by wind.
But here, in the allure of silk,
there is only the illusion of life.