The Elderly Rose


A wilted rose
Has crumpled lips
A crimson complexion
And thorns at her hips

Her vivid has turn grey
Her eyes settled at noon
Dripping her head
And shedding soon

She doesn’t fear the darkness
But compares it to the light
Her beauty was unforgiving
Her morning dives into night

It wasn’t the rotting
She would fear
But the young memories
That would disappear

Her smile lines are now wrinkles
Her curves start to fold
Her beauty wasn’t unforgiving
It was turning her into gold

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