Myrtle
It was at our gate
A tree the bloomed white rose
And bore velvet leaf
That type of thing that makes a child believe in fate
I mean the sweet scented kind
Like a woman's skin covered in oil
One day I stood there again
Long after my father fell asleep
Leaving me like an abandoned child
My heart was cloyed with grief
And like a child I weep
For love I had taken for granted
Was gone
The fence had fallen too
And I was forgotten
At the forgotten gate
Where the myrtle rose grew.
Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2012
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