Flowers they sit in wilted shame of another worldy sin that I can not explain.
They gaze at the pale winter sky and remember fondly of spring....
Spring was long ago.
The leaves they have died. Much to the delight of the crows.
Vilots cry there childish weeps and woes while the farmer picks and plucks them up just so; for his new wifes bonnet.
The black roese wait for there somber end.
To have there brief moments of joy as they laugh bitterly at the lovers end; the funeral.
They laugh! Can you imagen? The white roese share there grif somberly with the preist as they watch life slip away....
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment