The virgin rose

The virgin rose is breathing in between the pages of the old days,
The virgin rose is dying to drain her fragile incense to the beloved.
Rose, like a backlash, blemishes the silent expressions.
A spine has erupted now with a fire up in the mount, the galloping veins are to run behind the recollections,
The petals left are tossed upright proving their existence in the sands.
The days are gone when these petals are the books pouring straight into the heart,
Those nights were hard when the roots thrown by those eyes corroded every passion inside.
The virgin rose is latched safely inside that pile of paper; she could never recover to the topless bloom,
To the endless footsteps,
A deep sigh.
The virgin rose still survives in those moist letters inked in the old days.

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