Through London’s gaslit veil he walked in green,
a sunflower pinned where others wore the gray,
his tongue a blade no critic’s edge could keen.
He turned the world into a stage of play,
where beauty’s sin was painted pure as art,
and every mask revealed what it would feign.
The crowds first laughed, then tore his life apart—
a marquess, rage, a queen’s unyielding law,
the cell that broke the wit but not the heart.
In Reading Gaol he heard the footsteps fall,
each man’s despair a shadow of his own,
the crimson rose of love condemned by all.
Yet from the wreck a final truth was sown:
each man kills what he loves, and still we live
to praise the rose the prison could not own.
The yellow book still opens—take, forgive—
for in his fall the light grew sharp and bright,
and beauty, once condemned, learned how to thrive.
-
Author:
Matthew R. Callies (
Offline) - Published: June 25th, 2026 06:53
- Comment from author about the poem: Poem number 25 for Pride Month. This poem is dedicated to Irish poet and playwright Oscar Wilde. For more context visit https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oscar_Wilde
- Category: Unclassified
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- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Tristan Robert Lange
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Comments2
Beautifully written a wonderful tribute to a great author well done a fave
Matthew, what struck me most is how gracefully you weave together the public figure, the prisoner, and the enduring legacy. From the sunflower and sharp wit to Reading Gaol and the final affirmation that beauty survived condemnation, each movement builds naturally toward a deeply hopeful close. Beautifully written, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
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