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.
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August 2, 2018
Poetry/Rhyme/The Rose In My Hand
Copyright Protected, ID 18-1059-533-01
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
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