The Rose - Poem by Isak Boyd
Disease has ravaged our leaves
The healthy green crumbling into
stale yellow then brown.
We hang onto each leaf and thorn
as the virus races toward the stem.
She looks down at us curiously
while we cry into each others' hearts,
hunched over on our bloodied knees.
Bitterly holding onto
each inch of foliage.
'But their just leaves, ' she says,
shaking her head sadly as
her two favorites devour their soul.
'Cut them off! ' she screams.
'It's the rose that matters.'
Comments about The Rose by Isak Boyd
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You