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The Rose Inquest

18 Oct

I hold a fallen rose in my hand,
giving virgin caress to its bloom;
not so effortlessly grasped,
that it slips from my fingers,
nor with any zealous gage,
that it may wither too soon,
but with innocence denied me,
as tho’ I’ve not held a rose before,
and could ne’er imagine its beauty.

Break now, these aged petals,
and fall away too easily;
not too widely spread,
that one may not gather them up,
nor too sparsely veiled,
that one may not see them fall,
but showered, like the rain,
that they may leave remnant scent,
a perfumed adoration upon my flesh.

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Posted by on October 18, 2016 in My Poetry

 

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