Rose of the Nameless

a rose 
opens slow, and delicate 
in the relief of a long-awaited storm 

i uphold conversation with it, or with the voices in my head 
they reason with me and seek my focus out 
frozen in this stasis 

i stare, wide-eyed, into the core of the blood-flower 
expiating all my pettiness 
silent and breathless 
still, unmoving in this tempest 

the voice enfolds me like a shroud and soon becomes my shelter 
its light rising upwards 
like an esoteric flame 

it is the sceptre of all nature 
untouched, without a name 

and though the rose stands motionless 

it shall guide me all the same.