A ruby red rose blooms in November's
Winter, arising from the dying embers
Of a once golden, thriving flame
In the many summers that came.
The onset of December makes it wilt
Until the sun arrives, which makes it tilt
Its soft petals to the sun, her sweet scent
Wafting through the air, boring a dent
Into the otherwise musty afternoon air.
She waits for days for the golden one,
But he had disappeared somewhere else, done
With his presence for the month.
She never withers away into the painfully cold winter
Though it does harm her, the splinter
Of a heart she has. She whispers into the stars
Her wish of having a glimpse of the one causing all the wars
In her gentle, kind heart.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry and Drabbles
PoetrySilver light flows from the moon, guiding your each step through the dark forest, thick with foliage. As you walk further, the dense forest gives way to a huge building, which looks to be abandoned, deprived, of contact with the human world. You mak...
