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The Beautiful Red Rose

A wilt flower, The lost fragrance, It will never recover, For eternal, being left aside. In its prime, The fragrance is much sweet, Enough to tempt bees, A generation was born. Oneness and self-deluded, Being admired but left-deserted, Thorns that sting and wound, A generation is lost and downed. edited: 26/11/2020

Copyright © | Year Posted 2020




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Date: 11/18/2020 2:42:00 AM
Damning end to your poem..
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