The Rose In My Hand

I hold a rose in my waiting hand, it feels alive and soft and light as air; and I weep for him in a new land, far off past the clouds- a place fair. Our love was like this rose so fresh and new, then, he was gone- his bloom now grows above; all I have left is a rose wet with death's dew, and sweet, sweet thoughts of him to ever love. I stand and weep- then, rose changes slowly, his soft petals wither and fall, he fades; I fall upon my knees with words holy, his bright crimson, now gone to inky shades. Dark wine, berry, raisin stained he fades, to dead, my love is gone- in life his petals were bright red. ____________________________ August 2, 2018 Poetry/Rhyme/The Rose In My Hand Copyright Protected, ID 18-1059-533-01 All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.