The Withering Rose..

The pain of being apart,
wonder why...
The rose of Valentine
is withered and brown.
The pages of my book,
have a rosy tinge now.
Still, I am here.
And he is there.

Letters scattered on the table,
waiting to be reread; again.
The dungeons of my mind,
getting desperate and worn.
Of thoughts; unfavorable, pessimistic.
Singing a melody
on the death of life.
Oh! An elegy for you, Life!

They flowered, withered.
Flowered yet again.
And here, Spring is late.

Time's gone on..
My hair's turning grey.
Will I ever bloom?
Or remain broken, waiting and worn?
The pain of being apart,
is too much for me, to bear..

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