Before it fades and wastes away,
I'll gather up this dying day,
and tend, with tenderness, its grave,
for which, this poppy I will save.
This crumb of comfort I’ll compress,
immortalise in flower press,
to conjure up this dying day
when it has long since passed away.
And when its sombre sun has set,
this remnant of a raw regret,
I'll bury, in a book of death
to breathe its final, bitter breath.
-
Author:
Blue-eyed Bolla (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: January 9th, 2024 12:21
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 5
Offline)
Comments3
Beautiful
Thank you
A beautiful composition. Stanzas flow and the rhyme is unforced. Well done.
Many thanks, C58
It reads like a paradox,
I think I like it.
Thank you.
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