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Poetry

Pricked by the thorn
from a dusky red rose.
Blood drips from my fingertips
and falls...
onto the rain-washed sidewalk.
Waiting for my lover
who will not return.
Waiting for my lover
who is in the arms of another.
My tears stain the rose
standing there in the rain.
Sorrow is my companion.
The rose falls to the ground
as a painful reminder
to a love that did not last.

Rhiannon
May 8, 2001

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Posted by Vladimir
Sat, 06/09/2007 - 20:33

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