Comments Inbox
| |
My Mother was like a Rose
My mother was like a rose
beautiful at sight
frail to touch.
She could stand up
and say her mind.
She needed love
I feel like she never got any.
And that’s why she withered away
like a rose.
Her heart was pure,
her soul made of gold.
She’d rustle in the wind,
and hide when cold,
much like a blooming rose.
Day by day
a petal would drop
‘til nothing was left.
She was the dying rose.
And as each day goes by
without her sweet melody,
I tell myself this:
I must not cry that she is gone
but smile,
she was here.
Written by my 10-y.o. daughter Payton
|
|
|