Discourse of a Rose
I found a book from long before
And thought to read the book once more.
The pages, yellowed, slightly torn;
The book well-read, now bent and worn.
And as I turned each page with care
I found a rose was lying there--
The symbol of a love repressed,
A rose between the pages pressed.
And still the rose was bloody red
While uttering the words unsaid.
The rose said all there was to say
So I left it for another day,
And placed the novel in the den
Until the rose should speak again.
The discourse of a bloody rose--
The one I picked; the one I chose.
And even now that flower grows
And sows whatever seeds it sows.
~M
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