The Withered Rose

  The Withered Rose
In my hand is the most colorful:
Magenta, pink, yellow, golden, brown, and
Many other unnamed
Out of this once scarlet body

All the colors
Now are weaving together
Upon the calling of Departure: a journey
Is not simplified by Simplicity. 

I put her down on the ground. 
No vases (my hand is simply another one) can be open enough
To hold her beauty and something called Life and Death.
    07/17/2006


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