Withering like a rose in winter,
the crown of red dries and turns to dust.
A stem so feeble a gentle wind could break it.
Spring growing rain.
Heat of summer.
A gentle kiss from young lovers.
Admires eyes gazing at the perfection nature has made.
All just fleeting memories.
Was it ever young?
Was the crown really red?
The leaves a lush green?
Was it truly perfection?
It can’t remember beyond yesterday.
Was the sun really warm?
What was rain?
Does existence really matter after all?
When does exist mean death?
Was the crown really red?
Taken from ‘The Reconstruction of Me’. A collection of poems I started in the early 2,000’s. Not a published book.
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