Nothing Heals Faster
Sitting on my creaking rocking-chair
Saying to my son, youngest of four
Yes to your question and the air of passion is the budding rose
As tender as the flesh of young babies
Forgiving than a mother her child
Wilder than broncos
Selfish as dogs
Putting all in a basket of life
Marriage of love is the bed of roses
Where the power of the roses
Withstands the prickles of brambles
So to say son
Hard you may see it
Wildness would erupt
Where it lay extinct
And passion of great ferocity shall frighten you
But there always is
The bed of roses to lie on
Copyright © Tangwa Abel Tabod | Year Posted 2009
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