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Love's Dark Reflection #lovepoetry #poetrydaily #poemaday

Love was never a heartbeat. It was the echo left behind after the heart forgot why it was still beating. It arrived wearing another person's face, its hands stitched together from promises that had already begun to rot. I welcomed it. Not because it was kind, but because loneliness knows how to mistake a wolf for warmth. Every smile it offered cast a longer shadow. Every whispered "forever" fed another ghost sleeping beneath my ribs. The thought of love is a clever liar. It builds cathedrals from broken mirrors, then asks us to kneel before our own reflections, calling the illusion destiny. How eagerly we obey. We water flowers that grow from graves, write poems to people who never truly existed, and embrace memories still unborn. Love watches. Silent. Patient. Like a spider waiting in the center of a web woven from hope. It never forces us inside. It simply lets us believe the silver threads are rays of morning light. By the time we understand, the sky has forgotten our ...
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The man and the Rose #lovepoem #poetry

At dawn the bees rise, gold-dusted and brave,
Wings humming promises the morning gave.
They cross wide fields with tireless devotion,
Reading the air like a sacred motion.

They do not pause for the loudest bloom,
Nor the flower that flaunts its heavy perfume.
They search with care, with patient sight,
For nectar that’s true, for sweetness that’s right.

From petal to petal they gently roam,
Borrowing gold to carry it home.
Through storms, through heat, through uncertain skies,
Their faith is honey, their hope never dies.

So too stands a man in a garden wide,
Where countless flowers bloom with pride.
Each one calling, “Choose me, see
I am beauty, I am destiny.”

Some shine bright but with shallow roots,
Some wear colors but hide their truths.
He learns, like bees, to look within,
Beyond soft petals, beyond the skin.

Then he sees her quiet, rare,
A rose that blooms with mindful care.
Not loud in scent, not proud in show,
But deep in strength, in steady glow.

Her thorns speak wisdom, her red speaks grace,
Time has etched truth upon her face.
She stands unmoved by fleeting eyes,
Rooted in earth, beneath vast skies.

The man chooses as the bees have taught:
With patience earned and lessons bought.
Not every flower is meant to be,
But the rose is love’s eternity.

And like the bees that return with gold,
He carries a treasure more precious to hold
A love well chosen, pure and true,
A rose unique, forever new. 🌹🐝


© 2026 Gloria Penelope

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