The rose.
She sits in the window.
The light
Not consuming her,
But illuminating her.
The rose.
Tilted but not wilting.
For it still gets water
And still gets love.
The rose.
Gentle and lush.
How the moon light hits her.
And how sad she looks.
Sitting at the window.
Tilted but not wilting.
YOU ARE READING
The Wilted Bouquet
PoetryPoetry I decide to write about the thoughts that come to mind.
