Black Roses Poem by Paul Gottselig

This poem is dedicated to Chevelle Behar. Thanks for being different, thanks for being unique, thanks for being you. And thanks for helping me be me. You'll always be my Black Rose.

In the distance, a raging fire sweeps through the luscious,
forested valley far below, devouring and consuming all in its path.
Further along the way, a lone rose bush stands before the vast
burning wall of destruction.
Its limbs are strong and littered with long razor sharp thorns.
The petals are bright red and glisten in the light of the setting sun.
The last gust of wind floats on by, showering the rose bush in a
rainfall of still warm black ash.
The roses quiver and shake in the heat of the approaching fire.
They move in a seemingly rhythmic beat, like the pulsing heart of a
dying animal, gasping for its last breaths of air.
As I watch, I wonder. What thoughts are rushing through the mind
of this unfortunate rose bush?
That is, if it has a mind and thoughts at all.
Does it feel fear? Does it know that its whole existence will soon
vanish in the blink of an eye as the ocean of fire swallows it up
without a second’s hesitation?
Perhaps it knows, and has accepted its fate.
Then again, it could be that it’s waiting for some miracle to save it
from this inevitable death.
Or maybe it simply does not care due to the fact that is has no mind.
The fire is so close now. Sparks lash out and leave burnt scars in the
flesh of the rose bushes petals.
A tear rolls down my face as the rose bush is devoured by the fiery
storm, so hot that nothing could survive.
I think to myself, how can something so destructive be so beautiful?
When one beauty collides with another, what does it become?
The answer is so clear now. It simply becomes, more beautiful.
As I turn to walk away, I let the lighter slip from my fingers and fall
to the ground at my feet.
I wipe the tear from my eye and take one last look at the burnt rose
bush, and that’s when I realize.
The death of one beautiful thing, results in the life of another.
The roses aren’t dead. They’re not burnt or destroyed.
Now, they are simply, Black Roses.
I look to the sky. Dark clouds roll in over the mountains.
And then, it rains. I walk away with a smile on my face.