Wilson Hay Kinley
The Touch Of A Rose
As I sit here, alone, in the darkness, awaiting to hear your voice once again.
I remember those words that you once bestowed upon me. With such sweet sympathy.
Like the decaying petals of a rose. a rose with a voice no less. each petal screaming louder than the last, desperate crys, pleading for there lives. Holding on to that last bit of colour, hoping that they can once again be beautiful. An image, soiled by death.
For you see.
Nothing lasts forever.'