The Concrete Rose

by Conor Keane

Dawn rises on the gloomy city
Cloaked in shadow, not so pretty

as it may think itself.

A area of bustling crowd
Always nosy, much too loud.

Sometimes I want to put it on the shelf.

Of my mind and of my soul
A land that can eat you whole

Or chip at you with what goes on.
The horror of all that is wrong.

It is a place that's quite unfair
But such is a cross to bear
When you live and when you walk

On sidewalks caked in dirt and grime

and the tears of a million crimes

Some against nature, some against love.

A place where good flies away,
scared like a dove

searching for a place
to leave its branch

and good will.

I leave my room, out of the gloom, descend the stairs and out the door.
Wondering is it worth hoping more

When my foot nearly steps

On a rose.

I notice its unassuming beauty as it juts up from the crack
of the sidewalk of a million steps
My wonder did not lack

For how could something of such simple beauty
live in such a clime

How could something so fragile
Stand it all this time.

And so I advert my walk
Certain not to hurt it
For to kill such beauty would be sin
And I'm not one to do it.

And so I walk off on my way until I

reach the corner

and across the road I see her.

A girl of infinite grace, waiting for the light to change
I fight the urge to run and say hi
Firstly because I would be crushed
by a speeding truck

although the fear of being crushed lives there regardless.

Instead I stand, a statue of fear
Wondering should I venture near

But as always, I fall back
and admire

Another Concrete Rose
peeking from the crack.

ConorKeane's picture

Conor is a law student from Galway, Ireland who writes poetry, prose and fiction. His influences include Robert Frost, Philip Larkin, Stephen King and Simon Armitage.

Last updated May 26, 2011