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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Once, I grew in a garden, but, now I am part of a death bouquet; on top of a coffin in a funeral home, I suppose it is an honor but I feel doomed. People passing say we are beautiful roses, (not for long I am thinking); then, a fragile, gentle hand touches me, and pulls me away from the others. A girl strokes my petals, and holds me to her cheek; I feel her tears falling on me like rain, all day she holds me tightly in her hand; often kissing my petals. That night, she places me in a glass vase, and I hear her weeping in her sleep; in the morning I am a little droopy, just a little weak. I cannot hold my head up, but she calls me beautiful still; each day I am fading, withering- dying, and I know my end is near. Soon my petals fall, fall, fall and the girl picks them up- each one; putting them in a pretty bowl, and that is how it went- 'till; more of me became petals, until there was no flower left. Yet, the girl still touches my fading petals, and calls me beautiful though I am decay I want to tell her that beautiful is not my name, I whisper to her- my name is love . . . _____________________ July 7, 2020 Poetry/Personification/Beautiful Rose Copyright Protected, ID 20-1266-602-03 All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France Written for the PREMIER contest, The Flower, The Thorn or Both sponsor, Chantelle Anne Cooke First Place
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