If Death Had Eyes

Dear Death,

Will I miss living,

When I fall into the depths,

Of your selfish sinning,

Cold and unforgiving?

Harbinger of sorrow,

Do you not have eyes?

Hiding in your shadows,

In your bespoken lies,

Where even truth wears a deceptive guise.

Speak, demon,

Who hath taken my rose,

My lovely maiden,

My sweet heaven,

The woman who wore love like a crimson cloak.

One by one,

Her once-loved petals spun,

A dance that spoke of moments undone,

Slowly wilting, dulling, and fading,

Stiffening, stifling, and then shunned.

Blood-red tears of mine succumbed,

As the heart that once beat was numbed.

An eternity ago, my rose worked in the farms,

Tending sheep in their beloved barns.

I visited her often,

To stumble and soften,

At the sights of her simple allure,

She was like rain, a cascade of curiosity, and simply pure.

From the moment I met her, I knew I met my cure.

One day, I saw her admiring a rose,

A flower in her own right, donned in red clothes.

Simply beautiful, stunning, a poem.

Her smile, her laugh,

Her sheepish nature.

She was my better half,

My rose, she was my painter.

We etched our memories together,

The wine that warmed a gentle cascade

into our intertwined hearts,

The adventures we had, regardless of fate.

You! Death! If only you had eyes,

You would have seen my rose,

My love, my maiden, in the garden of time's demise,

Petals unfurled, a beauty that forever grows,

In a garden of memories where eternity flows.

Fleeting moments danced, pirouetting in her grace,

A symphony of wonder, a melody death strangely regretted.

Your cold touch couldn't steal her bloom,

For love's embrace transcends the tomb.

If death had eyes, it would have seen,

The resilience of a love, forever serene.

In the garden of mortality, there she thrives,

A testament to the love that death survived.

Rachvik Arora