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Wither
October 9, 2012
Charcoal tears like black rain
smudge and blind her eyes
while she looks down at the dying rose in her hand
the petals pink, whithering into ash
only when the tears touched the rose did it heal
pure and perfect
then fading again, breaking into pieces when her tears dry
how could she be happy when part of her was still withering?
this flower was part of her
who she was, who she is, and who she will be
so she cried till she herself was too withered to be
she died there, with her flower, pink as a rose picked just that day
blooming with life, evermore
© Lauren B., Edina, MN
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