Treasure Island

Morning Dew


Bruised


Oval, red
falling through space,
edges turned
beauty spurned.
Falling again, flashes of red
pure blissful dread.
Cut, tampered, distorted
rolling into a whirling mass
of red.
Lifeless, homeless
almost dry,

the petals of a rose flower
A red rose flower
that in their struggle
for survival were
bruised.....

Submitted: Saturday, August 23, 2008

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