RoseAnn V. Shawiak
Falling into a musical pattern, taking off with it's design as it builds itself into a rhyme of selection.
Grasping thoughts, a dozen at a time, filling the emptiness of my mind with prosaic blossoms, scented with bereavement.
Roses to be set upon a grave dug for a family member in her prime.
Scheduling an opportune time to respect and praise her life in moments of latent demise.
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