Dying Rose

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Her shuttered head hangs
slightly perched on her palm,
she sits there thinking of what has happened,
she sits there feeling alone.
Her lids pull the curtain
down over her eyes,
that frowned face spills poetry,
announcing the somber glooms rise.
She brings herself down,
depressed, and stressed ,
knowing the indecisive fate
marks her lonelinesses repressed.
Shut out; ignored,
she says that's how she feels,
the difference of her speech and myself,
is that I'll never let her be alone.





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