The Invisible Rope
Her name was Rose,
A stunning blossom,
with an expiration date assigned at conception
Planted,
With firm roots
The elegant sun shaped her
The willowing moon gave her a yearning for the subsequent day
The forest was ablaze with
Hope,
Joy,
Bliss,
Purpose
The beautiful melancholy of music,
Life was so immense, yet so cozy
A maze of unsorted spectacles
Left to be discovered
Rose was, but
All too soon,
Life — — —
— — — Ripped
The now cold sun wilted her
The now harsh moon, insensitive
The soil turned acidic,
And the vibrant forest, now an abyss
With the morning dew scattered,
Cacti blossomed,
It’s ever suffocating roots left cracks,
The once oasis perished,
Leaving the barren ground
Signaling one thing,
Harvest time.
Plucked from the soil,
Her smile, lifeless
Preserved,
With time, marks
Death
With age, marks
Redundancy
Waiting to be discarded,
Such as a used doll
Perhaps next season,
Another rose will grow.
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