Blossom

I long to write

a poem like a rose

not blooming, bloomed

red, ripe, and ready to draw blood

words like petals

folding together

into a delicate perfection

but roses fade

into wrinkled, crinkled things

they lose their color

lose their form

then lose their life

till petal by petal

they fall to dust

nothing more than a spring dream

once seen

and at once forgotten

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