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Roses
July 10, 2019
I pick up the roses,
Cast offs of fragile ecstasy,
Torn off of sin,
And yesterday's fantasy.
Red for the widows,
White for the widowers.
Tasting of burning Desire,
Of seething famished souls.
But roses,
Too little,
A little too late.
Because forgiveness comes in at sunset,
For all and everything,
But my failed endevours.
© Paige R., San Diego, CA
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This poem is about our perpetual need for love, no matter how much, how often or how deeply it hurts us.