That little box in the back was opened for me;
Hid before, he had the key.
I stood in hunger; the lid rose,
Slow and calculated.
I leaned forward for a chance to quiet
Curiosity of what’s inside,
I brushed past the cobwebs and dust.
It was but a dried petal from that rose...
Cracked and brittle it crumbles at my touch.
‘Tween my forefinger and thumb
A sentimental smile spreads,
And I look on, stoic,
Before a breath escapes my lips.
Then away and gentle, its floating,
Dusty and cool; In the wind now,
Caught in the sails of that ship in a bottle.
No comments:
Post a Comment