Just like a withered rose,
A petal of crisp and brown laid bare,
Hold a million tales of loss,
Which nobody left to care.
Just like a withered rose,
Another sign of a dying love,
Waiting to be dispose,
But still, you hold it close.
Will nursing it be a vain?
A hope to return its former beauty.
Will its story starts again?
Just like a story of you and me.
YOU ARE READING
From The Bottom Of My Heart: Gone With the Wind (Poetry)
PoetryJust a little glimpse of how I live my life. Written in a form of poetry. I started to wonder and I still was when I wrote those first few lines. As I continue to write, an idea; a theory slowly crept into my mind. What if this is the real me? All...
