Sunday, February 19, 2017


The white rose
you gave me
the day I left you
in our gypsy wagon
is rusting at the petal tips.
Cells of mortal memories
Are always called to this.
You wanted our developing
To end when I pushed
You away
And now you want me
To return
Because I’ve got your back
But plucked it was
By your fair hand and
I’m not sure I understand
How our soft start
Accelerated already to this?

No comments: