My Rose
A rose once grow here,
now nothing remains
but roots and veins
bleeding and left
for the wind.
My rose is nothing
but dust in the wind
and yet
I loved My rose
to
The End
My Rose
Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion.
T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) American-English poet and playwright.
Title | Comments | Submitted |
---|---|---|
Title | Comments | Submitted |
Lyrics of life and love | 0 | 02/01/2014 |
The 5 rooms of living | 0 | 02/01/2014 |
Forgotten wish's | 0 | 02/01/2014 |
A Goth's Reflection | 0 | 01/31/2014 |
My Rose | 0 | 01/31/2014 |
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