| The roses are wilted, the hips are bended to touch the ground with heedless tongue of so dry petals too soon forgotten behind life bustle to better times. Their thorns got dulled, the beauty no longer attracts buzzing bugs with mystic odor, just grace and wisdom, imprinted as witness, another live flow in labyrinth of throbs. |
The more we move the more they fall, but maybe some with stick that keeps life from getting rather ick.
ReplyDeleteA lovely piece.
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