Monday, February 18, 2013


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.
Image credit:


  1. The more we move the more they fall, but maybe some with stick that keeps life from getting rather ick.