Dead Withered Rose

January 20, 2009
A dead withered rose
So delicate and sincere,
An old forgotten memory,
Resting on a bare wooden shelf,
The brilliance drained from its ruby red lips.

Its crisp shriveled petals fall,
The once strong lively green stem is now weak,
No longer clinging to the fragile curled leaves.
Its fresh sweet scent no longer lingers in the air.

And as it lays there brittle and languid,
The rose holds a secret.
Its frail lips sealed tight,
Never to share the captured whisper of words which were tucked away inside its spiraled core.
An old forgotten memory never thought to be forgotten.
A simple reminder.
A dead withered rose.

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