May 8, 2008

She's like a withered rose.

A whithered rose that is still beautiful,

still beautiful to those who love her.

Her petals are brown and fall one by one,

but is still in bloom in our eyes.

A withered rose that has no pleasure to others,

A beautiful ruby red rose to us.

Long forgotten is this withered rose,

no longer pleasing in many ways.

Is she really losing her mind?

Why does she look so confused?

Why is she so quiet?

A withered rose I will never forget.

A withered rose who in my eyes will always

look beautiful.

Was that a smile? A giggle?

Her face looks flushed. She's happy.

She still remembers my name.

Her skin is course and her black hair now

turns silver.

She gets old day by day, but her smile is still young.

Her laugh fills my heart with joy.

Her days are rough yet she can always make our day.

A withered rose with thorns, no longer approachable.

We try but draw back, our hands bleeding, tears

welling in our eyes.

Is there hope? Can she possibly come back to us?

A withered rose to you, a beautiful rose to us.

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