O Rose, thou art
Anything but sick
Thy petals pristine,
Please me,
Your fragrance
Divine,
The smell of
Your sweat
Mingles
With mine.
In the bed,
The others
Are dead,
But the worm
Has not found
You yet.
O Rose, you are
Not the most lovely.
Those that grew early, they
Blossomed
Beautifully.
You
Are but
A winter
Rose.
I shall
Pick
You, by
A thornless
Stem.
Please me.
YOU ARE READING
Petrichor
PoetryWe grow old eventually {here are the waking thoughts that consume me}
