In this profuse -
Bouquet of flowers,
Lied a dead rose'
A dead rose,
Bleeding-
Bleeding not cause:
Its dead'
But cause it killed,
Killed sentiments,
So it must perish,
Not cause it was a murderer
But it loved someone.
And that someone,
Was me.
I was the recipient.
The dead rose :
That drowned my ambience.
Felicitating me with grief,
And unbearable torment,
Which I must agonize-
Without any exceptions.
But do you know
Who was that dead rose?
It was me.
~Krishna~
YOU ARE READING
Truly Beautiful
PoesiaI can't see past you, But i'm too scared to make a move! A short book of poetries that you can relate to ig? By- Krishtastic (Krishna) (#1 on newera) (#1 on spilled thoughts)
