My Rose
A rose once grow here,
now nothing remains
but roots and veins
bleeding and left
for the wind.
My rose is nothing
but dust in the wind
and yet
I loved My rose
to
The End
My Rose
If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.
Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) American poet.
Title | Comments | Submitted |
---|---|---|
Title | Comments | Submitted |
Lyrics of life and love | 0 | 02/01/2014 |
The 5 rooms of living | 0 | 02/01/2014 |
Forgotten wish's | 0 | 02/01/2014 |
A Goth's Reflection | 0 | 01/31/2014 |
My Rose | 0 | 01/31/2014 |
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