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Poor Rose

Withered flower,
shrivels with grace.
Last of its essence,
escapes from taste.

Hidden from touch,
are the tears a rose cries.
Then fades away,
she will shrivel and die.

Wo pretty rose,
death stalks real.
And there’s no one to hear you,
or the pain you feel.

Life’s based on death,
on land and in seas.
And only man,
is heard on his knees.

Only man has God,
to hear his cries.
To judge his soul,
to live or to die.

Poor child of life,
young flower in bloom.
Your soul or flesh,
is already doomed.

Empty of loves nourishment,
each peddle falls.
Nature’s teardrops,
come in the fall.

Copyright © Donald Holmes | Year Posted 2013


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