Rose For A Dying Lady Poem by Chibueze Oscar Osuji

From the corridors of my prairie land
I bent low, plucking a rose, just for her;
I felt the bright petals through my left hand
With my right I cast the thorns to wither.


No horse, to travel down memory lane
To rekindle the golden times of joy
Now happiness slope down the inclined plane
Of sorrow, digging beneath sadness soil.


Her tender frame, now bony and lean
Her succulent lips now lack their lipid
What a bride for a king she could have been;
In pain, her swollen lids pour out liquid.


The arousing rose shall counter her dread;
Eyes gazing, while my heart does the crying
As she lay on the rumpled cottage bed,
I know death does the killing and she the dying.