Thursday, 27 March 2014

About a rose

A rose rose rose where the forlorn winds trod
Turning the grey into pure, solid gold.
The near near basked in its glow down the road,
Where once a sombre funeral bell tolled.

The rose rose rose and Venus, but envied
For sweet was her scent and vivid, her face.
And the spring spring gave up riding her steed
Admiring, and time stood still, counting the days.

The dawn sky shied away and glowed no more
Where on a stalk, Helios himself did pose.
As for the pen that writes, he did, but soar
And penned epics of love where the rose rose rose!

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