Rose
A single rose
Stood on the bush.
It’s color fiery
Red.
But winter winds
Used brutal breath
And to the ground they
Bled.
The other flowers
Had long been dead
And it’s time would soon
Arrive.
Des’prately it
Struggled to hold
On and keep itself
Alive.
The reaper waits
For no one though.
The flower bowed it
Head.
And whirling flakes
Concealed the bloom
And no one saw it
Dead.
Poetry is what is lost in translation.
Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.
| Title | Comments | Submitted |
|---|---|---|
| Title | Comments | Submitted |
| blur | 4 | 07/06/2009 |
| What I need | 0 | 07/06/2009 |
| Hidden | 0 | 07/06/2009 |
| Rose | 0 | 07/06/2009 |
| Last Generation | 1 | 07/06/2009 |
| Echoes | 0 | 07/06/2009 |
| Escape | 0 | 07/06/2009 |
| Perfect | 0 | 07/06/2009 |
| Tact | 0 | 07/06/2009 |
| Destiny | 0 | 07/06/2009 |
| Slices of Reality | 0 | 07/06/2009 |
| Inside Me | 2 | 01/29/2009 |
| I See | 0 | 01/29/2009 |
| Sacrifice | 1 | 01/29/2009 |
| Grace | 1 | 01/29/2009 |
| Illusion | 5 | 01/29/2009 |
| Hidden | 0 | 01/29/2009 |
| Yesteryear | 0 | 01/29/2009 |
| Guile | 1 | 01/29/2009 |
| Deception | 0 | 01/29/2009 |
| Salvation | 0 | 01/29/2009 |
| Rage | 1 | 01/29/2009 |
| Voyage | 1 | 01/29/2009 |
| I Am | 0 | 01/29/2009 |
| Sold My Soul | 3 | 01/29/2009 |
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