Empty thoughts flood my mind;
Petals on the table,
It’s just a matter of time.
Sorrow for what’s being lost
Or gratefulness for the privilege to have seen such a blessing
Selfishness wants to hold onto the present
For fearful thoughts of the future I’m not confessing.
Red petals curl
The edges dry.
Fatigued, they slip to the table
As the rose begins to cry.
Standing here
No longer strong and bold,
Weakening with every moment
The room grows cold.
Who can stop this tragedy
These parts of life that seem to repeat?
Is this a sign of growth
Or an omen of defeat?
Age 20