Golden Rose

Art by Juliette Silk

Writing by Erika Acosta

When morning came, he swore a vow
He made my soul believe somehow
That once he'd found a golden rose
It would be mine, I'd hold it close

I drank those words like sweet red wine
His vow the fruit, his lips the vine
His chalice dressed in red and gold
The liquid dripped in words he told

I would have wanted more and more
Of sweetest wine, of vows he swore
But then I went to take more sips
And bitter poison washed my lips

When evening came, we said goodbye
But now I know he told no lie
There's just a thing we both had missed
That golden roses don't exist