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Frozen Flames of the City Rose

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"When he leaves will then I find rest? Fallen from grace and out of king’s nest. But who is he to define struggles of my own? Is he the inflictor or a symptom of a greater problem not yet shown? Why are there so many questions when transparency is chief? Yet truth is veiled beneath the sea of green leaf. What happened to honor and respect and truth and trust? Why are laws broken yet injustice is called just? When he leaves will then I find rest? Do flames become quelled, or do rose fires spread beyond the west?


The root of where it began, liberty and justice for one. Give to yourself and the rest be shun. Where hath gone the land of the free? What has stolen the great and mighty brave? The saints and sinner be damned to injustice while the lawmakers pass go to collect pay? If liberty is dead, who welcomes the seafaring men home? If justice no longer balanced, what weight does citizenship condone? Tried and true are the righteous whom sacrifice hand upon heart. Noble and near is the sentinel of spirit, purveyor of peace, nation of our homely start. 


Peace, peace, peace. Upon these three I depart in truth. Truth, truth. Arriving to these two I discover this joy. Joy. With joy I understand the contrast hate. None, but all around is the spell of spewing spit. Thus then the flamed fire of furied fight. Chicanery is the tongue of sour spirited fool. The monster’s making for hearts of conditioned cruel. But what monster is without master to share dreadful delight? Slander to slain mortal and chivalrous knight. In the outskirts of darkness lies the feeble minded fool. Like a leave in the darkness, a rusted plastic tool. 


A tool to the darkness, harkened to the shadows beyond the deep. Where lost boys cry and invisible men weep. What possibly could human do to fall into the place of such unknown? Is it the content of their character or the color of skin shown? Why do men judge off a tonal color hue? Why do woman sneer at every failed visual cue? What value does justice have without joy and love, except for serve sign to the one above? Is hope but that of a flower, a seed reaching out to find the golden ray? Or is hope just the voice saying we need to wait another day? The flower is burning up, reaching too close to the sun. Withered to the ground from which it came, withered before it had even begun.


There once were two men, a parable of two routes. A split in the path stemming, one to the field of flowers and the other to ocean blues. Though pathways uncertain, both men went their ways. One seeking out opportunity, and the other seeking praise. The man to the field wanted to nurture, give life to life renewed. The other wanted attention by the world and world thus viewed. The man of the field did foster, and soon stem did rise. Like a flaming field of red did roses flare in size. Spring quickly did arrive, and the man of the ocean blues found himself alone. The world’s eyes were captivated now to the rose field of ruby red stone. And this I say, neither man split to a wrong path astray. Only one man chose to adorn the future, while the other strived to be adorn into their decay.


In the landscape of the unseen are the details best understood. When light is stripped until darkness, contrast shows what was once good. The darker the night reminds that there is only the brighter of days. Once again the valleys will shine bright like a rose lit ablaze. And when the deep purples roll in, like a river of enchanted inferno, might then mystery of the unseen come to rest in their resting burrow. Pain is not just punishment, but lesson for mercy’s good will. The greatest value is not always when life moves forward, but when our feet are rooted still.


Where life is rooted, in the cracks between the lines. The shadows of empty space voided like vacant housing signs. Herein lies the life truly unseen. The worlds long forgotten that slipped between the seams. Where boxes line the streets, one smashed against the next. An entire community of molded cardboard duplex. A place long abandoned, a life from maybe once ago. Yet often a home that is all they ever know. Where is their justice? Where is their awaited save? A rose that will never burn across media, even in midst of searing heat wave.  Their rose is the dirt, beneath the flowered beauty. But this struggle is only another war to be fought as the flames burst in outcry against breeched civil duty. 


A rose on fire, a rose in flames. A city overrun with blue blazed shames. Though beauty can be seen upon thy iridescent flame, it burns as a collective whole. When two sides conflict, friction causes loss of control. True as it is, the rose has thistle that invoke pain. But is not thy thorn to protect against unruly domain? Then too are the exploiters, the lawless weed. Beneath the flower and the flame they slithering to steal with malicious greed. The rose does it burn, a fire flaming in the dark. The city does it adjourn, a remembrance of history tainted and stark. As each petal does fall in ember fire, does thine confinements shake in warning dire. Burning petal, to stem, it reaches next the flower’s root. Did the flames begin from undelivered equality or the right to steal and loot? A rose on fire, spread within thy home. Toppled from within like the city of mighty Rome. Flake of fire child do fly into ember lit night, fire’s frozen petals soar like bleeding kites. There was a rose on fire, scorching now my heart. Tore a city down, tore a family apart. 


On the outskirts of the flame lie the lives all reached. Protest rise up again plastering words “defunded” and “impeached.” Nationwide calls for accountability against actions unjust. Half the country brushing aside concerns without another word to discuss. What then of this? What then is there to say? Do we revolt or step down with shame? What is the path to peace if the only road is through a trail of fire? Do we take our first steps forward or stand back to admire?


There the man lie, in the abyss of open land. One step into the darkness, one step further than where he used to stand. Though the day may never rise for him a new dawn, he knows that the right direction is towards a future thought gone. The path is not easy, for many surely try. When faced with stepping into darkness most stop without asking why. Why? Why must we make the step, even if we are not the one to reach the goal?  Why? Why just we serve another when we are already whole? We don’t have the answers dear man, but this we know. If there’s a step for you to take forward, then there into the darkness ought you go. 


There was a rose is on fire, that we know is true. There was a rose is on fire, but the question remains of knowing why it was started, and by who? If flames do simmer still, why still does the rose ignite itself time after time? Once is an accident, but at what point does it become a crime? There the flame fingers do reach, like Phoenix talons into the great Heaven above. Pure is the flame’s touch, like a pure white dove. The fire should not be burning, that we hope you can see. Yet still we let it burn, consume on its destructive spree. How long before we force the burning to stop? Do we wait until the rose has burnt down, or stand idle until the flames have reached those up on top? A rose still burns alive, flames frozen in raging heat. Do you rise to the occasion, or accept you’ve faced defeat?



When the end draws near, and time soon come, I find peace knowing the flower is almost done. Though burning it may remember, it does not accept that as defeat. Though a challenge, it will succeed for death it has beat. Split by darkness and diverging paths does the rose find its grace. For the Rose is Portland, and in Portland is the Rose’s place. Many might try to burn the rose, igniting its frozen fire. The rose is in flames but the flower grows higher."

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