Where do the roses go…
when the thorns, in life,
vanquish all your dreams…
and what you’re left with
is blood pooling at your
feet?
Where do the butterflies fly…
when the scenery, in life,
parches dry and what you’re
left with is tumbleweed
tossing in the wind?
Where do the leaves bud…
when the earth shrouds in white?
And what you’re left with is,
stiff, frostbit branches, boughs…
too laden to breathe…
or to form greenery.
Where do the flora’s grow…
when the surrounding’s,
in life, soils, as to bereft?
And what you’re left with,
in society, is shard’s of hope…
While grown men, fasten,
tie nooses with a rope!
personal photo
