How Pale the Rose
How pale the rose that blooms as never wild
against the green of grasses unconfined
and fate of thus becoming sickly child
of limb and root forlornly intertwined.
Transparently, so bravely it prevails
as witness to predictable demise
that must become the journey it regales
in role as heaven's seed it will reprise,
and thus so humbly occupies its place
with hope of being plucked and dried and pressed
between the leaves of time's eternal grace
as beauty yet again to be addressed...
...or found at least by those who will today
admire it as the pale of life's bouquet.
Bio: Old man.
Prefers to craft with sole intent
of verse becoming complement...
...and by such homage being lent...
ideally also compliment.
The Ekphrastic Review
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