A Dying Rose

A Dying Rose  By: Adam M. Snow  Helplessly I wait upon the hour, drawing closely;  I, myself ponder tremendously.  Do my eyes deceive what once was a rose?  And by that, does it be a rose no longer?  I speak to be heard once more,  and once more to be heard by that rose.  But I cannot see that of the beauty of her face,  yet her eyes glances swiftly beyond my essence.  Could it be? Oh could it be,  that my essence is enough to guide thee?  I am but one in groups of many,  she sees not I but one in twenty.  She is that of a dying rose,  shedding that of blackened petals;  a black rose, I say so myself.  Doomed by what the world gave to thee;  a single tear drop, which falls and taints the ground.  And by that passing hour; she, herself would wilt away.

A Dying Rose
By: Adam M. Snow
Helplessly I wait upon the hour, drawing closely;
I, myself ponder tremendously.
Do my eyes deceive what once was a rose?

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