A rose, a single rose, slowly but <br />surely bled to death, by thorns, <br />merciless in their cruelty, <br />merry with passion, feasting on my garden’s <br />inability to brave its mighty current <br /> <br />Winds whistled while they wined...and <br />dined, as blades of grass bowed in recognition and <br />much respect <br /> <br />A rose, perhaps another, now <br />dead, once bled with such profanity, at having <br />lost its crimson glow. But the <br />wind, however, was colorless, no less, and <br />careless, as the guilty are oft as <br />blameless <br /> <br />The wind whistles, if not <br />weeps...and hauntingly so, while it <br />waits for its next intended <br />victim <br />For where the winds hath blown <br />my respect had grown<br /><br />James Papastamos<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/where-the-winds-hath-blown/
