She is a rose.
Her petals hide her frail, small frame.
She is a white rose.
With a pure dress to cloak her lonileness.
She is a white rose with speckles of red.
She stained her dress when she was cut on her own thorns.
She is a wilting, stained white rose.
She has a few petals left.
She is a white rose with one petal left.
She whispered goodbye as it fled in the wind.
She is a stem of thorns,
Who was once a beautiful rose.
YOU ARE READING
Words From The Heart That Tears Don't Determine
PoesieThe Truth I traded my heart for the real world, I sold my field of innocence for the truth, I broke through the bonds that held me back from understanding, and now I wish I hadn't. But I can't turn back time, The decision isn't mine, But I wish I h...
