Bench Without a Rose
How stone-black is the park at will
And frail is the twilight
That glimmers across an uphill
Yet teardrops roll, all decked in white.
~
Later, amidst the evening rain
When hours drift in repose
The pounding lash of time contains
A bench without a rose.
Contest , Brian's Select B
Copyright © Nette Onclaud | Year Posted 2013
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