In a garden of darkened briar and shadowed bramble,
among the hedgerows and grassy fields of your mind,
grows unbidden a haunting reverie in white tumbled ramble,
the remnant silhouette of what you may soon find.

It is not sweet like suckle or as bitter as the beautiful lady,
but it has sharp thorns to keep the nightmares at bay,
and it stretches, tangled coiling away from spots shady,
its stalking green branches lifting white fruit toward day.

Cup it to yourself, the tender blossom against your breast,
and close your eyes tightly to drive away all pain,
away to another place whisked, and there find your rest,
to let go those hurts that wash your heart in cold rain.

But no matter the path you walk or wherever it goes,
remember that nothing in life is ever as it seems.
And rest thee well among the petals of your white rose,
warm from your hands and dewy with dreams.