The Rose
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I picked a fragrant rose
so dulcet and perfumed
for you
and kissed the honeyed petals
that where rich, dark and dripping sweetness
dawn has faded into a sky azure
and a sun golden ...
I pressed the rose to my cheek,
and gently carried her
oh, the scent of rose
reminded me of your death
as the melodious birds sang
in low tweets of respect ...
now, there is silence that wraps
around my broken heart
and the rose is wilting
she hangs her head, dying
for I am weeping, weeping
then, I lay the rose upon the garden grave
of my beloved cat ...
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February 4, 2022
Poetry/Imagism/the rose
Copyright Protected, ID 02-1427-804-04
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Submitted to the Standard contest, A Strand (1065)
Brian Strand, Judged 02/05/2022
First Place
Copyright © Constance La France | Year Posted 2022
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