cracked pot by the door—
a rose blooms despite the mess
still catching the light
her red is louder
than missed calls and loaded carts
she blooms anyway
petals tilt, unasked
you pause with a half-held sigh
she knows how to wait
no slow violins—
just leaves falling on concrete
no apologies
gone with no fanfare
she leaves red on your fingers
like something unsaid
.
-
Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: August 31st, 2025 04:07
- Comment from author about the poem: ...something bright but not soppy for a Sunday!
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 1
Offline)
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