Tuesday, September 1, 2009
A rose of crimson specked in salmon,
hangs in the balance of a cruel universe,
The petals dull and crack to uneven tiles,
fallen by the word; sanding, harsh and terse.
The beetles, havoc-reeking, feast and dine,
trimming shade from the stem,
Their sheering maws, voracious and unsatisfied,
slice and tear a lonely, rouge gem.
Yet, renaissance comes with spring and petals anew,
and the rose perseveres through even temperament.
And, as seasons pass and summers abound,
the melancholy rose finds no winter abandonment.
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