|
There is a garden
Of which no one knows.
Where only the most beautiful
Roses are grown.
Royal blue
For true love.
Winter white
As a dove.
The most common though
Is blood red.
They were grown
From tears being shed.
Beuaty astounds
All those who see it.
In this beautiful
Garden of Secrets.
But alas.
The beauty must fade.
For it is the end
Of another day.
And another season
Has come and gone.
Destined to leave me
All alone.
I sit in this garden
And watch for the changes.
As the roses all turn
To perfect strangers.
From the strangers,
Thorns are falling.
Winter is coming
They are stalling.
Buying for time
The roses are changing.
Their leaves are wilting
And their colors are fading.
A bit of frost
Lands on a rose.
My poem has
Come to a close.
And I'm still sitting
All alone,
In my Garden of Secrets
Where strangers are grown.
|
