Poemetry: The Writer and the Rose

Long I walked through a flower field

before my eyes deemed a rose fair.

My papers trembled, each page sealed,

each word affright at petals bare,

when a furious flurry peeled

them from my hands into the air.

Now to choose: the papers or the rose?

Each gale endangered their being

and I could not protect the two.

Swift my mind ran, all sense fleeing,

as my legs chased the sheets that flew.

Soon collected from the freeing

wind, back to the rose my eyes drew.

There it stood proud but bald of stem,

plucked of every scarlet petal.

Turning my back to the mayhem,

I left there, lacking the mettle

to gaze long on that broken gem

of cracked grace and fallen fettle.


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