It wasn’t just a rose. It was a poet—one with ink-stained petals and verses woven into its very being. Every morning, as the light stretched across the room, the rose would dip its delicate head, soaking in inspiration from the shifting hues of the day. It listened to whispered conversations, the way the wind flirted with the curtains, and the quiet sighs of those passing by.

The petals, soft yet untamed, carried unspoken sonnets—ones about love, longing, and the beauty found in imperfection. The stem, sturdy yet yielding, held the weight of untold stories. And the vase? A humble stage, holding space for words to bloom.

No one quite understood how the rose wrote its poetry. Was it the curve of its leaves, the tilt of its bloom, the way the colors blurred like ink on parchment? Whatever it was, those who lingered near it always felt something—a verse settling into their hearts, a lyric they didn’t realize they were searching for.

48” x 18”, oil on canvas