This rose has been too long in the sun
Her edges are getting dry
Gone are her petals’ velvety shine
in its stead are the unsightly lines
that no doubt say she’s past her prime.
Her thorns get sharper as they wither
Her fragrance betrays the odor of decay
Will she remain the treasured flower
the one you kiss and pin on your lapel?
Will she be tossed in the compost heap
forgotten but by the buzzing flies
Or will you press her between the pages
of your favorite book
her grandeur, a sweet souvenir to keep.
DVerse Poets wants us to write about our fears. One of mine is hiding between the lines.