The Rose Of Death (Q1) Poem by martin.j. schofield

' Hey Rose, with your scented kiss,
To you, I am thy dearest wish,
So show me not your perfumed bloom;
Surely later, will lead to doom.


Though your head droops lowly,
Death comes early in yesteryear,
You wilt slowly;
Caressed by the morning dews tear.


And now the cold, the dark and the frost,
Will take away from you the loss,
Of fear or hate or worse;
The dour temptation of remorse.


It's not your fault, you did not ask,
To loose your life,
Your soul, your heart;
Even with hard work, with strife;
Farewell Rose and now depart '