Laments of the Rosarian
I feel the blues
this evening
and retired Sunday.
In haste,
The gloom will chase
another her birthday.
Aerial but short,
Crimson radiance
must fare away.
Cureless I am.
With no gifts,
Save my thoughts,
A vain bouquet.
I only pray
the valley's lonesome rose
blooms visible,
Come what moist
or a dire rainy day.
Waterless,
She might die of thirst
and reigning
withering winds,
Stalking,
To blow her astray.
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| oldmedina | 
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