I have kept a flower
somewhere on the pages of an old book.
The usual red dissolved in forgetfulness.
Brown and Flattened.
Compact and flawed.
Still I sense its tender scent,
below the nose it clings.
I have kept it,
and have never hated
its grotesque, severe reminder
nor the pain the thorns gave,
for crimson blood, warm and sweet,
still flowing in its petals' parched veins.
I've kept it,
the sweet -- the last painful piece.
*What are you holding on to?*
YOU ARE READING
What Sprung Out of Our Holes?
PoetryWhat Sprung Out of Our Holes is an anthology of poems centers on the metaphoric meaning of Holes and other unobtrusive things to our eyes, but remain inspirational to our lives. Like holes, as one of those stated, we are sometimes in dark corners, u...
