I was the white lily,
rooted in the earth,
able to feel every step,
every threat as it arrived.

You were the yellow rose on the cliff,
safe in height,
calling down assurances
yet, never tested.

You say I turned away.
My face lost to you
as you stood beside my foe
and called it complicated.

Each blow taught me the simple truth:
love that hesitates is already choosing
love that violates is already gone.

You spoke of unconditional love
while maintaining a lofty height.
But love that will not descend
is not love at all.
It is a fanciful word, dead before recital.

When you walked with my enemy,
the last petal fell from this lily.
That was the precise moment.
Not before.
Not after.
Then.

The yellow rose was not forgotten.
Nor was it abandoned.
This lily cannot remain rooted
where thorns were welcomed
and blood spilled.

If the white lily is to be cruel,
then so be it.
Thus the bitterness of betrayal.



Penned by my hand on the 1st of Glacian, in the year 995 AF.