The rose is overdone in verse
for every lover claims its worth.
The red one in my neighbor's yard
now stirs forgotten memories.
The rose is often overworked.
I do recall a boy who daily
offered roses to bring a smile
to a winsome girl he did desire.
Nor seldom I conferred a rose,
a small investment in wistful hope.
The rose was adoration's pledge
affirming tenderness in passion.
One more poem on the rose,
perhaps a waste of precious time.
The red rose at the neighbor's gate
recalls a time I believed in love.
That rose is pain, its petals blood.
It speaks to me of lovers lost,
no smiling eyes, no hopeful sigh
from unrequited roses of memory.
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