Don'T Cry, Rose Poem by Kewayne Wadley

Her lips brought the wine,
Sweet, fruitful as the picture of the peach that layed against the clear background,
Her lips spread the petals of the rose,
One from which grew from the concrete blocks, laid by man,
Her lips, fertile,
As with each word spoken,
The petals were no longer dry
By the harsh brittle wind that picked the stem,
The rose from which she spoke,
Became relaxed, as it laid against her lips,
Indulging in the landscape of her face,
My eyes became witness to obsession,
The thorns from which protected the rose made space for her fingers,
Throwing caution to the wind,
As her fingers became the roots from which it began to grow,
Steeding fast, as a comet shooting across the blackboard sky,
Leaving trails of chalk that shimmer across where it's been,
The petals left it's tears,
Empathy asborbed as her nose became the middle of the cross the rose knew as religion