The White Tempest Rose
By: Lucas Scheelk
The white rose
The white rose thrown to them at the curtain call of a dream planned in advance
The white rose passed on from tradition, of hours standing, of hours being spat on, and pissed on, and witnessing minor characters almost die before you
The white rose that to this beholder, smelled of fresh picked raspberries found on Lake George
The white rose that to this beholder was the stim they could cling to, the smell they could cling to, the memory they could cling to, to not overwhelm the present reality to cling to, as they told the unexpected Ariel that he was their favorite portrayal
The white rose
The white rose that absorbs the tears they want to cry as the actors bowed
The white rose that absorbs the tears they want to cry as the crowds dispersed but the Thames has beaten the rose to it
The white rose of stammered hellos and gestures of admiration towards Prospero on the patio and hoping the impression carves into their heart an iota of the numerous statues of thought that have been made in their name
The white rose of their voice was worth the four thousand miles, five months, and five pounds
The white rose that felt to them the same amount of power as Prospero’s staff
The white rose of disbelief while waiting for the N89 at Blackfriar’s Bridge
The white rose of a private party they did not deserve but was not kicked out of
The white rose
The white rose of the number of petals counting as wishes for the wellness of the first Ariel
The white…. Tempest…. rose
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