Ode to a rose
A rose is a rose and so it’s been said
But is that true of a rose that is dead?
It once was a flower that shone, had a scent
But now is a nothing, a compost event.
It’s shrivelled and crumbly without any smell
It’s dark, without color, you hardly can tell
What it was in its past life – a limb or a flower.
Without its distinctness, a clump of black powder.
So remember of roses until they are not.
They are pleasant and pretty and smell quite a lot.
But there’ll come a time when they wither, I assert.
That it is not a rose, but instead, just plain dirt.
Like this:
Like Loading...
About hdh
I have been telling stories for over 40 years and writing forever. I am a retired teacher and storyteller. I hope to expand upon my repertoire and use this blog as a place to do writing. The main purpose is to give me and others that choose to comment, a space in which to play with issues that deal with storytelling, storytelling ideas, storytelling in education, reactions to events, and just plain fun stories. I explore some of my own writing throughout, from character analysis, to fictional, to poetry, and personal stories. I go wherever my muse sends me. Enjoy!
