Rose Bud


My rose grew as my tears
hydrate its bloom. 

Our love is unique,
She a blooming bud,
I a stealer of breath. 

I sat her in my handmade vase,
hydrating her roots each morning. 

I shared my poetry,
She shows no judgement,
yet still she is but a rose,
her stillness cultivates my curiosity. 

I wonder if she hears my voice,
if she feels my presence, my touch. 

Can my rose be more than just a
rooted bud? 

Her petals are wilting,
like burning parchment paper
over a candles flame,
each one rolls up,
slowly falls to the ground. 

My rose died leaving behind
perfumed memories. 


© 2017 Amanda D Shelton


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