The Withering Rose
The Withering Rose,
Oh,how it blows in the silence of the day.
All alone on an old tombstone,in the cemetery it lay.
The swaying trees and blowing leaves,
a quiet song they play,
within the gloom,to it's dying bloom,as the light begins to fade.
How grave the power of this dying flower,as I see it's petals sway,
for the Withering Rose,it seeks repose as the
wind blows it away.
Oh,how it blows in the silence of the day.
All alone on an old tombstone,in the cemetery it lay.
The swaying trees and blowing leaves,
a quiet song they play,
within the gloom,to it's dying bloom,as the light begins to fade.
How grave the power of this dying flower,as I see it's petals sway,
for the Withering Rose,it seeks repose as the
wind blows it away.
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A poem that kind of puts me in a calm, quiet place.
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