By N.E.Uvaneighm Poem by Dan Reynolds

I have no thoughts for others on these days
whene'er the mournful mist comes to consume.
The last feint twinge of hope, surely decays
and taints the remnants of her sweet perfume.

No better bittersweet blood ever flows
within the veins of verses from my tears,
than those born from the death of my lost Rose,
my undesired muse for all these years.

For I would rather fate had left you here
e'en though, a thousand poems would be lost.
And now I vow to overcome all fear
my goal to bring you back at any cost.

My knife is slicing deftly through the shaft
in preparation for the final graft.