She Is the Rose


She is the rose.                                                                                                                                                        

My soul is the wind                                                                                                                                              

her petals are reluctant to follow.


She is the sun.                                                                                                                                                        

My mind is the night.                                                                                                                                              

Her moonlight paints the streets.


She is the shore.                                                                                                                                                    

 I have marked my walk                                                                                                                                        

 which the tide has erased.


She is the rose                                                                                                                                                        

I have held so tight;                                                                                                                                              

So tight the thorns have punctured.



I wrote this poem with a certain person in mind. I have not seen or heard from this person in four years but for some reason I think about her every day despite the fact that I doubt she still thinks of me. I felt this would be a great poem to submit because I really meant what I was saying when I wrote it; even though she will never read it.

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